


Life as We Know It

by ohioinmymind



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Sexual Content, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Minor Character Death, Naomi Samuels, Naya Samuels, Noah Samuels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-03 05:02:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 50,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2838974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohioinmymind/pseuds/ohioinmymind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a disastrous first date, the only thing Liam Payne and Zayn Malik have in common is their love for their godchildren: Noah, Naomi, and Naya. When they unexpectedly become their caretakers, Liam and Zayn have to try not to kill each other for the sake of the children. Juggling insufferable debt and steamy love affairs, both new dads have to find a way to raise a family while living under the same roof with someone they love to hate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> what it says on the lid, this is a life as we know it AU with ziam as uncles/parents. there's a warning for character death but it's no one major and if you've seen the movie you know what to expect so don't hate me too hard. 
> 
> zayn and liam and the kids are all alive, don't worry.
> 
> disclaimer: i do not own any of these characters or any of the central ideas that are in this fic. the plot is loosely based on the movie life as we know it, with major differences in subplot and character development. i do not intend to profit off of any of these works. 
> 
> i hope that you enjoy this! leave me a comment or a kudo and tell me if i should continue!

 

_2002 – Veronica Malik and Andy Samuel’s shitty two bedroom apartment_

_***_

“You’re not allowed to pick out my dates anymore.”

Liam has never been irrefutably sure how to prepare Andy’s coffee.

He knows that Andy has been on a steady lifeline of caffeine since his mother told him he wasn’t old enough to drink it. But there are only so many proper coffee supplies you can sneak out of the fridge when you’re eight years old.

This means Andy has readied himself a cocktail of the tiniest amount of coffee with heaping spoonfuls of unmeasured sugar and half a bottle of heavy milk. He’s almost seventy percent certain that Andy has birthed a food baby from Pepperidge Farm French Vanilla Creamer as a standalone.

That was over a decade ago, when Andy was drinking coffee because his mother forbade it, and because it was the third best cure for hangovers. Now he’s buying dairy for infants and letting premium roasts stain his teeth in order to stay sober. Andy Samuels a family man now, he swears to it.

But when Andy isn’t playing with his newborn baby or teaching his toddler to pick up blocks, he’s arranging horrible blind dates for his best friend.

Liam would much rather him stick to yellow his teeth with coffee and step on blocks.

“C’mon, Noah. Bring the ball back to daddy. There you go, _theeere you go._ ” His friend ignores Liam completely.

Liam stands by the kitchen cabinet for a long time, watching Andy bounce a baby on his knee and call the other one forward with a bending finger. He takes a picture knowing the mother of Andy’s children will appreciate seeing Andy with alphabet soup on his forehead.

Veronica will love this.

“V is the one who set it up,” Andy says to Liam once Noah has crashed in Andy’s lap and Naomi has drooled all over his fingers. “I told her that you were too high strung—”

Offended, he interrupts. “I’m _not_ high strung, Andy.”

“—to go out with a guy who rides a motorcycle and like, _enjoys himself_ on the weekends.” Andy plays with Naomi’s hair and Liam sulks into his cup. “But she thought you would be good for someone like her brother. She says he’s not a bad guy. Just unsettled.”

“I am not high strung, that’s rude to say to someone you’ve known for the better part of twenty years.”

He’s ignored, again.

Andy laughs at the bundle of brown hair and auburn eyes in his arms. It’s so weird to see Andy coddle anything other than a bottle of flavored liquor. Liam guesses this is healthier, though.

“Do daddy’s fingers taste good, Nay? Do they?”

But equally as unsanitary, he shudders.

Liam’s going to make a point of ushering his friend towards the sink with the antibacterial soap before he hugs him goodbye.

Bringing the subject back to Andy’s attention, Liam speaks over his coos. “He failed to make reservations.”

Andy doesn’t look up. “You’ve done that before.”

“He wanted me to get on the back of a motorcycle in the middle of January.”

Liam can feel him roll his eyes. “I’m guessing he assumed you weren’t a giant baby. Or that you owned a jacket and gloves.”

He’s not catching the seriousness of this, Liam can tell. “He made a _bootycall_ while he was in my car. Right _in front_ of me!”

Andy does glance at him then, and Liam cannot say he appreciates the condemnation put into the arch of Andy’s eyebrows. “Let’s not pretend that you didn’t give him head after he walked you back to your apartment door. Let’s not do that today, Payne.”

That’s absurd, starkly outlandish that Andy would mention that because it didn’t happen. Zayn did not place anything phallic shaped in the vicinity of Liam’s mouth. _His hand_ , however…

That is beside the point.

The point _is_ that it is just like a pompous, over-gelled, egotistical _asshole_ like Zayn Malik to spread rumors and lies about his sexual endeavors. 

“It was a handjob,” Liam explains with more morality in his voice then he’s allotted to have in precisely this moment. “And hasn’t anyone ever taught you to mind your own business? Downright nosy is what you are. Always sticking your nose in something.”

Andy’s lack of response leaves Liam less than impressed. He immediately returns his attention to his children, talking to Liam without looking him in the eye. “Instead of bringing up things that don’t really want to talk about, can you just bring me my coffee? I was up all night.”

“Having two kids before you’re twenty-one is the leading cause of insomnia in the United Kingdom right now,” Liam says, but he doesn’t think that’s really true.

Not too far off, though, he imagines.

“As nice and non-sarcastic as you are, Liam, I’m surprised you haven’t gotten yourself a fella yet.”

Liam brings Andy his coffee cold and without sugar of any kind.

_***_

_2002, same day, same shitty apartment, two hours earlier_

_***_

 “That Leon guy you set me up with—”

“His name is Liam.” Veronica corrects him.

Zayn runs a hand through his hair and sprawls on his sister’s couch. There’s a paisley throw rug on the seat next to him donning a stain that looks possibly like throw up.

He moves to stand by the window in an inconspicuous manner.

Veronica is too busy watching her deadbeat boyfriend play with their son in the front yard to notice. She rocks his niece in her arms while she smiles out the window, and Zayn wonders how it’s possible for them to be the same age but so different.

Zayn thinks Andy is a piece of shit for leaving his sister here to raise a kid by herself for three years, but he can appreciate the effort the guy is putting in. Plus, Zayn is tired of babysitting and taking his leathered goods to the drycleaners.

He has a understandably frightening aversion to infantile bodily fluids.

V nudges him. “You were saying? About _Liam_?”

He’s not exactly sure how he manages to smile and frown at the same time, but he feels his face conflict. “Yeah, _Liam_. Liam is a bag of dicks, sis.”

She elbows him again, harder this time. Veronica nods to the baby who only understands the most basic of human principles: eat, sleep, and poop. Zayn doesn’t think Naomi is highly concerned with his use of colorful, yet creative language.

“Liam is a nice boy.”

“Liam has a nice mouth and that’s about it.”

She looks appalled, but Zayn isn’t sure why the fuck that is. “ _You didn’t._ ”

“I did,” he remembers that night in two parts. The first half where he was just a bit late. Only because his bike ran out of gas and he left his wallet in someone else’s apartment, and he still doesn’t know whose. “He told me not to tell anyone but you can see how well that’s going. I don’t like to keep secrets.”

And then there’s the part after the intermission, where Liam kicked Zayn out of his car for taking a call from a sick friend.

(“Oh yeah, what are you going to heal him with, hm? Your magic penis?”

“It’s a _she_ , and I didn’t think of that, but you know, it might actually work.”

“Get out of my car.”

“With pleasure.”)

Like the gentleman he is, Zayn insisted on walking Liam back to his front door. It was cold, and really Zayn was going on a hunch. No one gets that hot under the collar for someone they don’t want to sleep with.

In his experience.

He was technically right. In Zayn’s opinion any under the pants touching is an equivalent to sex.

And he didn’t use Liam, not at all. Zayn was planning to reciprocate but he barely had his pants over his hips before Liam was slamming the door in his face.

Veronica’s disbelief only produces peals of laughter from her brother. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m not denying that.”

_***_

_2004 – Zayn’s shitty apartment_

_***_

“I think I want to get married,” Veronica says, and Zayn’s not sure it’s directed at him until she slaps his forehead. “I’m talking to you, doofus.”

Zayn’s got a lapful of a bouncing bubbly brat, and Naomi thinks Zayn getting whacked in the head is the funniest thing, in like, the whole world. “I think you should do what you want. If that’s getting married to some ex-hippie douche bag, then you should do that.”

Veronica fists her hand in Zayn’s hair because it makes her daughter laugh. Zayn doesn’t find that he minds.

Andy’s gotten better.

Zayn almost has no complaints about him at all. His hair is still too shaggy, and Zayn still gets telephone calls in the middle of the night about him forgetting to get milk at the grocery store. But he’s good with his children, and his dumb ass shirt printing shop makes enough money to feed four mouths.

Sensing he’s being ill-thought, Andy waves at Zayn and Naomi from his seat on the kitchen cabinet. Noah is right beside him, very much invested in the pretty pictures that Zayn’s roommate left behind a few weeks ago.

Zayn can’t blame the little guy; his uncle has good taste in artists.

Naomi is preoccupied with Zayn’s fingers, having stuck two of them in her mouth already, little red cheeks bulbous around a smile. He’s trying not to think about how disgusting it is. It’s not incredibly difficult when Veronica is next to him murmuring things that make Zayn’s stomach lurch.

Commitment in the form of a long, deadly walk down the isle.

“I think I’ll make Andy get on that, then,” she says like it isn’t of concern. Veronica holds out her hands for Mimi—Naomi’s assigned pseudonym, as per Noah’s speech inclined request—but Zayn keeps her close to his chest.

She’s kind of his favorite little human being.

In fact, as far as favorites go, Naomi is Zayn’s favorite person generally.

“You’re just going to make him propose like that? Have you two even talked about torturing yourselves like that? Developed a safe word and everything?”

“We’re getting married, not shackling each other up.”

“I don’t see a distinct difference.”

Naomi trades Zayn’s pointer finger for his thumb, and he pokes her round nose because his niece’s laughter is a better sound than Veronica’s nagging.

“When are _you_ going to settle down,” is a question Zayn has heard too many times from his sister’s mouth.

He is in his twenties, so the answer is always _not soon_. If ever.

“When are you going to learn to mind your own business?”

Mi bats Zayn’s hands away, and she looks so much like her mom’s baby pictures sometimes that it startles him. Zayn takes his wet fingers and wipes them on Veronica’s pants just to see if they make the same whining face.

They do.

He laughs.

“You know,” she says after she confiscates Naomi and presses kisses to her ears and forehead, “I heard that Liam was single again, if you two wanted to— _you know_ —give it a go again.”

Zayn rolls his eyes.

Veronica rolls her back.

Naomi throws up.

_***_

_2005 – some shitty chapel that Andy’s parents could afford_

_***_

The ceremony is beautiful, and Liam is not ashamed to say he tears up. Who would have thought that Andy Samuels’ would make an honest woman out of the girl he knocked up in the back of his dad’s van?

Actually, who would have guessed that the same Andy who smoked weed out of discount dollar bongs would be sober and standing and the father of two well-adjusted kids?

Andy suggested that Liam put that in his Best Man toast, but he refused.

Veronica’s dress is long and expensive, and her hair is up in a bun that Liam can’t imagine took less than an hour to put together. She doesn’t have any family other than Zayn, bless her heart. So she’s stuck with Andy’s little cousins and an anxious Naomi who won’t stop throwing flower petals at the guests.

Naomi’s adorable, though, in her purple dress and pink plats, Liam will give her that.

Liam runs into Noah just before his parents are set to exchange wedding vows that _thankfully_ end up being less crass on Andy’s end than expected. The little guy is crouched onto a windowsill trying to tie his shoes properly.

“You need help there?” Liam kneels in his tux because there is no way that he’s fitting onto that ledge with him. If Noah wasn’t six and as big around as a stick of spaghetti, Liam is sure that he wouldn’t be able to squeeze himself up there either.

“No, I got it,” he says, but not aggressively. Liam knows what it’s like to want to do something on your own so he understands. “My dad taught me how to tie my school shoes.”

“I bet that was cool, huh? Learning how to tie your own shoes?”

It sounds lame, and Liam knows it as soon as he says it. He doesn’t know how to talk to kids that can actually understand sentences. Noah pushes his hair from his face—it’s long and pretty, Liam knows that everyone wants Veronica to cut it, but he can see why she won’t—and levels Liam with an even look.

“They’re just shoes.”

“Yeah, but they’re _your_ shoes,” he says, unable to dig himself out of this hole. “And, uh. And you learned something new!”

Noah is not impressed, and Liam tries not to cower too noticeably. “Uncle Zayn is right, you are weird.”

“You can tell your Uncle Zayn that—”

“That’s okay, though,” Noah says. And sure enough his deft, little fingers have figured out how to translate his shoe-tying knowledge to slipperier laces. Noah uses his thumb to smooth out the wrinkles from between Liam’s eyes. “I still like you best, Uncle Liam.”

“I—um, okay. Okay.”

It’s embarrassing how a handful of words from a shaggy-haired little boy with mismatched socks and crooked laces can make him feel so much better.

“Can we go see my mom and dad get married now?”

“We sure can.”

Liam helps him down from the window, not because Noah asks. Because they’re going to be late to see Veronica walk down the isle, and no one will let either of them hear the end of it if they don’t start walking now.

Noah holds onto Liam’s hand, and if he didn’t know it was scientifically impossible he would swear his heart swelled three sizes right there in his chest.

“When are _you_ going to get married, Uncle Liam?”

Liam pulls Noah along faster. “No time for questions, we’re going to be late.”

_***_

_2005 – very shitty and poorly catered reception_

_***_

Zayn has had a long day.

Veronica forced him out of bed at six this morning to get Naomi and Noah showered and dressed. And this is something that she didn’t through extensively; because Zayn will tell you—the only thing harder than getting a three year old in a frilly, chiffon dress and pinning her hair away from her forehead is getting her to _stay in it_.

On top of that, Zayn had to help Noah into his three piece tux, which was a horrible idea. He’s six and fucking irritable, and Zayn doesn’t blame him in the least.

(“We just gotta get through today, buddy. Just a couple hours and you can throw this damn thing in the trash.”

“You promise?”

“Promise.”)

Zayn hates how hopeful his nephew had sounded.

It only went downhill from there, and Zayn honestly should not have been surprised.

(“Noah, if you spill grape juice on that jacket _one more time_ , you’re going in timeout until your mom gets married.”

“You can’t even _see_ it,” he condescends. “The thingy is black.”

Zayn has no clue how Noah inherited a knack for exasperation so young.

“What if it gets on your white shirt? Hm, smarta— _butt_. _Smart butt._ ”

Zayn is brushing Mimi’s hair again. Every time she’s out of his sight for longer than twelve seconds she’s plucking out her pins, or trying to stick her head into flower pots.

Noah’s eyes are approximately the size of a dish plate. “That would be _bad_.”

“Yeah, it would. So keep it together, big guy. Naomi, come here! That is not a hat!”)

Zayn gives Noah two more chances before he wraps his upper half in the plastic you put over pots and pans. Noah can’t wiggle his arms or bend over to tie his shoes, but he’s clean.

Naomi runs out of flower petals halfway down the isle.

Zayn is fucking tired.

So when one of Veronica’s bridesmaids asks him for a drink at the bar, he’s not going to say no. And he doesn’t.

“I thought it was beautiful, what you did today,” she says. She’s blonde and tall, and not really Zayn’s type. Her smile is gorgeous, though, and her dress hugs curves that he’s not opposed to.

“Hey,” Zayn talks around the rim of his glass before taking a drink. He swallows hard, because it’s been a while since he picked up a chick at a wedding. “If my sister wants to tie herself down for the rest of her life I’m supporting her.”

She slides her hand up his thigh. “You like to be free?”

Zayn sets his glass on the counter, finished.

“Something like tha—”

“He likes to be disgusting, so save yourself the trouble.”

Of course, _of course_ , Liam Payne had to make an appearance. Zayn doesn’t take his eyes away from—Erica? Leann?—his guest, because he doesn’t wish to indulge Liam in any type of conversation.

Zayn saw him, sees his damn near every day, they bicker and get drunk and sometimes fool around. But then Liam starts talking and Zayn gets soft and they go their separate ways.

Liam was Andy’s best man, and damn if he didn’t fill out a tuxedo with his stupid broad shoulders and dumb narrow hips. His hair was a mess and his tie wasn’t straight, but Zayn appreciated having something good to look at across the isle.

Liam had slipped him a finger beside his bouquet.

Zayn blew him a kiss.

“Do you two know each other?” She has to ask right now, eyes darting between them.

‘Cause Zayn’s life sucks.

He tries though, tries real hard to break out even on this one. “Not really, babe. D’you wanna go some place more quiet? A little more private? Where this guy won’t bother us?”

“No,” she shakes her head and Zayn deflates. “No, I don’t think so.”

Zayn shrugs at her and thanks her for her time.

Liam doesn’t say anything to Zayn, just escorts himself from the bar with a drink and a laugh as Zayn’s date does the same.

Zayn’s had a long fucking day.

_***_

_2009 – a really nice house, with a really nice backyard and deflated bouncy castle_

_***_

“All you had to do was blow it up and not put a giant hole in it.” Liam stands to the side of Zayn, plate full of cake that he prepared himself.

It’s moist and tastes wonderful alongside a nice, warm helping of _satisfaction_. Watching Zayn Malik do something that’s not perfect for once is a real treat.

Of course, it is a tragedy that Noah’s birthday is ruined. But it’s a party full of ten year old boys and Naomi. Andy pulled out a jar of dirt that Liam thinks they might have used to store marijuana back in college.

It doesn’t have marijuana in it now, just dirt. And worms.

It has kept the party occupied for at least twenty minutes.

“Is it possible for you to use your mouth for anything other than talking shit and sucking dick?” Zayn is bent over an air pump, hair in his face and dirt on his hands. Liam would welcome the view if Zayn didn’t make him want to throw a punch every thirteen seconds.

Hissing, he says. “Is it possible for you to keep your mouth closed about anything you do behind closed doors? Is it possible for you not to be _undeniably gross?_ ”

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” Zayn says, and Liam knows he doesn’t mean it.

Zayn just likes to piss him off, a lot.

“You’re annoying,” is Liam’s response, and even he’s disappointed in himself.

“You think of that comeback all on your own?”

Zayn’s smile is Liam’s least favorite thing in the world.

_***_

They have separate holiday celebrations for two years in a row until Veronica decides that they are both stupid and she is done denying her kids the chance to see both of their uncles at the same time.

Liam accidently spills wine on Zayn’s sweater on Thanksgiving.

Zayn throws a plate of Jell-O at Liam on Christmas Eve.

Both times they have to clean it up, and both times they aren’t happy about it.

This results in angry sex that they don’t talk or tell anyone about because Andy and Veronica can’t keep secrets for shit.

They still, without a doubt, hate one another.

But the sex is really good.

_***_

_2010 – Mr. and Mrs. Samuels’ house (still too fucking big for a family of three, but that’s none of Zayn’s business) the night before Christmas Eve_

_***_

Zayn prefers to spend Christmas with a bottle of booze and shitty presents his niece and nephew wrapped at the last minute. And who knows, maybe he’ll still get to do that. He’s got a few more days to convince Veronica that she does not want him at Christmas dinner.

He’ll argue _the Liam case_ , if he has to.

It’s worked before.

Not that Zayn doesn’t like spending the holidays with his family, he does. But with the street art museum getting steady business the entire season of fall and plummeting in the winter—too fucking cold out to spray paint trash bins, he guesses—Zayn just can’t bring himself to be happy about the season.

Veronica is happy and pregnant, something that Zayn doesn’t understand entirely. She’s swollen to the size of their enormous house, and her feet are the size of car tires.

That can’t be comfortable, but what the hell does he know about the female reproductive system?

Instead of being at his apartment across town or on Main Street looking for new talent, he’s rubbing elbows with impossibly dense people responsible for all the shitty sloganed shirts around town.

Andy’s coworkers are a new caliber of fucking idiots.

Of course, there is the Neighborhood Watch. That’s the donned nickname Veronica has graced all the nosy, inconvenient housewives that show up on her doorstep from time to time.

Zayn doesn’t know their names, just that they’re irritating and won’t stop staring at him when he walks by.

And then there’s Liam, who brings light to any occasion, you see.

Obviously that’s sarcasm.

This time he’s shown up with a date, that’s startling of its own accord. Given that Zayn can’t stand to breathe around Liam solely for five seconds. Not if one of the Samuels’ isn’t there as a buffer, of course. He’ll have to start a line of questioning later to find out how Liam wrangled someone into spending an evening with him.

He’d like to see Liam’s cheeks tint just once before he leaves.

The glorious part, though, something that Noah and Zayn had found all too hilarious and decided to catch on film, is how much Liam doesn’t actually like this guy.

(“He asked mom if you were bringing a date and she said it’s pretty unlikely that ya wouldn’t,” Noah tells Zayn while he holds up his dad’s camcorder. “His name is Daniel, I think. Guy is right irritating.”

“Then he’ll get along with your Uncle Liam just fine, I imagine. Here, let me have the camera. You’re not holding it close enough.”)

“Can you please go away?” Liam is none too kind, scrunching his nose in Zayn’s direction. Never Noah’s, they all know Noah is his favorite. “I’m trying to enjoy the party.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I came over here, hm?”

Liam really does look nice in his pressed pants, red shirt buttoned up to his neck. It’d look even nicer undone some, he’s got a nice chest. Zayn will admit that.

Liam’s been biting his lips, Zayn can tell. He knows what Liam looks like all red and blown out, tired and excited in the same breath. Lips bitten red and cheeks flushed. Hair rumpled from Zayn’s mattress and cheeks indented with impressions of a pillowcase.

This is not that.

Huffing into his drink and inching away from wandering hands, Liam hisses. “Will you just leave me be?”

Zayn doesn’t know who he’s talking to, it’s that intense.

He doesn’t put the camera down, though. Being a jerk is kind of in his programming.

“Hey, Li? Is that mistletoe? Hanging over your head?”

Zayn scratches at his chest; he hates this goddamn itchy, homemade sweater.

He’s not sure Liam’s ever glared at him this hard. “ _No,_ it isn’t.”

“Yeah, little green stuff in the doorway.” Zayn tilts the camera up for video evidence. He nudges Noah, who is laughing just as hard. “You see that, big man? Are my eyes tricking me?”

“I see it,” Noah and Daniel say at the same time. Liam pouts with that smooth bottom lip of his.

“The crowd has spoken, Liam.”

The party goes on around them, and Zayn checks to make sure Veronica isn’t anywhere around to halt his fun.

Daniel, who is nice looking enough. Small hands and skinny waist. Long, curly hair in a low ponytail and glasses on his nose. Thick thighs that Zayn has to stop appreciating to really enjoy the moment before him.

Zayn doesn’t see why Liam is so put out. If he didn’t like him, he shouldn’t have brought him. Surely he didn’t do it on account of Zayn, who never brings a date.

You can’t leave with anyone if you’ve got someone plastered to your side. Everyone knows this.

“How about it then,” Daniel squeaks, and Zayn just about has a fit right there because there’s no way Liam is sleeping with this guy. Liam likes to be told what to do; he’s kinky as fuck for someone who never gets laid. “Just one kiss maybe?”

Liam isn’t fucking someone who _squeaks_.

His smile is slow and sweet, and if Zayn actually gave a shit about Liam being annoyed at him he might be scared. “Sure thing, David.”

“Daniel.”

Noah and Zayn have to pinch each other to keep from laughing.

“That’s what I said.”

And then they kiss.

But it’s all wrong. All fucking wrong.

Liam’s hands are crowded between their chests, sweat from his plastic cup making his fingers slippery. He’s fidgeting into it and Daniel is doing nothing to keep him still, not really. His hands slither up to Liam’s neck but they don’t hold him in place or steady his jaw. They’re just sort of limp and hanging and their tongues do a passionless slide against each other as Noah makes disgusted sounds beside them.

Zayn’s pretty sick of watching, too.

“Fucking hold this,” he tells his nephew, passing along the camcorder, because Zayn is a little drunk and a lot stupid.

Noah won’t tell his mom that Zayn cursed, but she’ll find out somehow.

It’s a shame how relieved Liam looks when Zayn shoves Dave or Daniel—who the fuck ever—to the side. It’s a tragedy, honestly.

Liam’s mouth is real pretty, always has been, but too wet. He’ll deny for the rest of his life, Zayn knows he will, but he waits for Liam to nod at him in haze before he replaces the heat Liam lost along the side of his neck.

That pretty pink mouth opens for him, and Zayn slides inside. He takes Liam’s cup and holds it out to the side. Noah takes it like a good little wingman, and it’s amazing how quickly Liam molds himself to the front of Zayn when he gives his throat a throbbing squeeze.

They breathe through their noses, and Zayn dances his fingers under Liam’s stupid red shirt, pinching the skin on his hip because he likes when Liam gasps in his mouth.

He tastes like crappy Christmas liquor, but Zayn likes Liam a little buzzed.

Liam gets squirmy and Zayn flexes his hand on his neck, leaving his lips to kiss his chin and the side of his face before he leaves Liam there. Panting and breathing with his eyes closed.

Because Zayn is just that damn good.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and taking the drink from Noah’s hand to chase the taste of Liam from his mouth.

Zayn winks at Daniel before they walk out of the living room—and several other passersby that got a chance to enjoy the show.

Liam doesn’t talk to him for the rest of the night, but that’s okay. Because Zayn and Noah get video of Daniel throwing champagne in his face at the end of the party and that’s, like, worth more than any conversation he and Liam could have had.

_***_

_2011 – a crowded waiting room at a hospital of Veronica’s choosing_

_***_

“Who brings a date the emergency room?”

“I want to show off my new beautiful niece, Liam. Is that a crime?”

Liam, once again, is perturbed by Zayn’s lack of couth. They sit with their elbows dueling for their mutual armrest.

Zayn wins only because Liam is tired of touching him. They haven’t spoken since last Christmas when Liam got dumped during Veronica’s stupid party. Zayn thinks he has it on tape somewhere, but Liam paid Noah for the only copy and it sits in his living end table with a pack of guilty pleasure cigarettes and a copy of some stupid art magazine that he definitely didn’t purchase with his own money.

Zayn’s coat is too big for him and his shoes make noise when he walks.

Liam shoved him into a seat half an hour ago to avoid entanglement of his hands with Zayn’s neck.

He has yet to find a solution for Zayn’s squawking date yet, though. This prompts a move across the walkway and a handful of peanuts in the back of Zayn’s sweater. 

Dust on the seat of a waiting room chair likely doesn’t say anything good about the hospital it’s housed in, but Liam respects Veronica’s wishes. Why she would choose Hendrick’s over St. Francis is beyond him but he sits between Noah and Mimi and keeps his mouth closed.

Noah’s hair is an absolute mess, but he likes it that way so Liam only fusses with it a little bit. Liam gets a stern look from Noah until he settles his hands back in his lap.

He was just trying to help, goodness.

“What’s Zayn done to make you grumpy now?”

The perceptiveness of these children never fails to annoy Liam. “Nothing,” he says without emotion. Zayn doesn’t affect him near enough to elicit such a reaction. “Your other uncle doesn’t make me grumpy. He just—he can be irritating.”

Naomi sucks air through her teeth and shrugs at him. “I think that means the same thing.”

It does.

Liam knows this.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

“He’s brought a date to your sister’s birth.” Liam says in way of an excuse. He can’t backpedal with these children. They have an impeccable memory. “Who does that?”

“The more the merrier!” Naomi is all smiles and flailing arms.

Noah—who is old enough to know his mother and identify her range of emotions—and Liam look at Naomi in a peculiar sense until she deflates. “ _Okay,_ maybe it’s silly.”

Liam nods, glad she’s seeing his side of things. “Very silly.”

“It sounds like you’re jealous or something,” Noah says into the arm of his sweatshirt. “Why’s it matter so much to you? ‘s not your baby.”

Naomi nods, and Liam does not know how things went so wrong so quickly. “Yeah, Uncle Liam. It’s not your baby.”

Incapable of much else but indignant sputtering, Liam tries to string a few phrases into a sentence. “That’s— _it isn’t_. That is not the point and I’m not jealous. I don’t get jealous. Not over your uncle. Not over anyone. But especially not your Uncle Zayn.”

“What’s wrong with Uncle Zayn?”

Liam does not like Noah. Naomi is now his favorite. From this moment on.

“There’s a lot of things wrong with Uncle Zayn,” Liam answers. His hands are getting sweaty. Zayn is looking at him across the way. Noah is giving him very undeserved and judgmental eyebrows. “Most of them have to do with the things coming out of his mouth.”

“He doesn’t like it when you talk, either.” Liam cuts to Naomi with very wide eyes. “What! That’s what he says—promise!”

Zayn nods at Liam— _that’s exactly what I say, mate_ —scratching at his beard and putting his arm around some guy who is much too excited for the birth of a child whose parents he doesn’t know. Zayn blows Liam a kiss with chapped lips and red fingertips peaking out of grey fingerless gloves.

Liam wants to barf.

He departs from his seat for the vending machine, praying that Veronica brings her daughter into this world very soon. He’s running out of favorite nieces and nephews to choose from.

_***_

_2012 – Noah’s school parking lot_

_***_

Cooking is just kind of Liam’s thing.

It gives him something to do with his hands, and eating things cooked by a professional is never trying. He’s got a bakery that’s doing pretty well, selling plates of muffins and bagels that Liam makes an effort to prepare himself.

“Thank you again for helping out, Liam,” sighs Andy around a bite of cupcake, red crumbs falling onto his shirt and cream cheese smearing the outline of his lip. “Noah really appreciates it.”

Noah’s a star on the basketball court. He’s long limbed and steady in his shoes. Veronica’s got him keeping his hair in a bun on the top of his head, strands falling everywhere and rubber band stretched to its limits. Liam hasn’t the slightest clue about basketball, but he knows that Noah can keep the ball in his hands—and out of everyone else’s—long enough for them to win several games in a row.

Liam is at every game, so he knows.

The school holds a bake sale for uniforms every year, and this is the first time Liam’s been asked to help. It didn’t take him long to say yes; Noah is his favorite.

He tries to keep it a secret but everyone knows.

“I just made the stuff; he’s the one selling it.”

Andy slaps Liam’s arm and smiles at his modesty. “You’re the best, dude.”

Liam has to say, Andy’s a little old to throw around the word dude. Somehow he pulls it off, smiling and putting a couple bills at the top of a full jar before he swallows around another bite of Liam’s volunteer cupcakes.

Denial is a strong thing, and Liam knows firsthand that Andy tried to forget his thirty-first birthday with as many bottles of liquor as possible. He was the one holding back his beard with gloved fingers and very little judgment. But the dad jeans and the worn sweatshirt with Naya’s spit-up on it suits him just fine.

Andy has done a lot of growing up in thirteen years.

Noah waves his dad over, and Liam shoos him away with another plate of cupcakes for the front lines. He’s got Veronica on her way to the store to pick up cookies and pies from his assistants. Noah had requested an apple pie specifically for a girl in his class.

Liam was not going to let him down.

“You look good covered in sugar,” someone drawls to Liam’s right. He turns on his heel frustratingly fast and regrets it in less than an instant. Zayn holds up his hands in protest and hollows his cheeks around his cigarette.

Liam hates that he watches Zayn’s mouth move.

“You look good twenty feet away from me,” he smarts, smiling to himself while he finds more green icing. Zayn’s still there when he stands up, leaning his body against a tent pole and looking Liam up and down.

Liam looks right back at him, because he’s not going to let Zayn get the best of him today. Zayn throws his cigarette down and Liam gets back to work.

“I look even better up close,” is his response and Liam chokes on the spit in his mouth because Zayn is _so full of himself_ that it gets a tad ridiculous at times. “Hey, you know—‘s real nice of you to make all this shit for Noah.”

“My cooking is not shit.”

“Isn’t what I said.”

Liam doesn’t look over at him, tries to focus on the task at hand. “Well that’s what I heard.”

“’s cause you don’t listen when I speak sometimes,” he breathes, and Liam should have tracked his movements because Zayn is at his six with knobby hands pricking at the tie of Liam’s apron. “It’s cool ‘cause I don’t listen when you talk either.”

Liam tries very hard to be transfixed with beautifully sculpted buttercream petals instead of the throbbing pressure at his spine, tingles here and there and everywhere. “Have you been drinking,” falls from his mouth because Zayn has crowded him enough for Liam to breathe him in. “You smell like a fucking bar, Zayn.”

“Not drunk, _buzzed,_ ” he says, simple as that. Zayn’s attempt to unshackle Liam from this horrible, horrible apron is failing. The knot must be too complex for his brain, Liam thinks. “How the hell do you get this thing undone?”

Liam’s shoulders are wider than Zayn’s, and given his lack of inebriation it’s easy for him to shuffle past the cage of Zayn’s arms. “ _You_ don’t.”

His voice is hoarse and the sun is shining too hard, and Liam wishes Veronica wasn’t such a slow driver.

The pinch of Zayn’s features tells Liam all he needs to know. He tries not to look, doesn’t care to anyways. “Jesus, you’re always in a mood.”

“You’re drunk at a children’s basketball fundraiser,” Liam explains, talking slow and thanking a nice, tall man for his donation.

“Sue me, I’m not fuckin’ wasted.” Zayn’s mouth fits around a flask he pulls from his pocket and Liam confiscates it as soon as Zayn is done chugging. Zayn doesn’t even put up a fight, just shrugs and sits on the ground. “Got dumped and I needed to take a load off.”

Liam does not care.

He does not.

“You should have stayed home, then.”

There’s a shine in Zayn’s eyes when Liam peers down to glare at him. They’re glassy and Liam doubts it’s the booze. Liam heard about Travis, Zayn’s live-in boyfriend. Never met him, but he knew of him.

He didn’t think it was anything serious. It only lasted for five months.

For Zayn, though, Liam supposes that’s a long time.

“I couldn’t let my little man down,” Zayn says, and Liam feels like an asshole for being such a condescending jerk. He looks pale and skinny and Liam vows to make him a plate of food before he leaves. Even if it is just sweets. “He already thinks I like Mimi better, didn’t want to miss his big day.”

“You do like Mimi better.”

Zayn’s hair sticks to his face and he’s searching his pockets for another cigarette.

Liam has somehow made his way to the ground in front of Zayn.

The parking lot is wet and hard and dirty. He tries to keep his grimacing to a minimum.

“I just don’t know how to talk to Noah, ‘s all. Don’t know what to say to him all the time.” Zayn’s eyes are droopy and Liam thinks he could count his eyelashes from all the way over here. “Doesn’t mean I don’t love him, just don’t—don’t know how to _connect_ with him.”

“He knows that you love him, you’re his uncle,” Liam says clearly, painting Zayn’s shirt green with icing when he tries to interrupt because _someone_ has to teach him manners. “And he’s a thirteen year old boy. Buy him shoes and a new game for his X-box. Just because he doesn’t draw like you and Naomi doesn’t mean he doesn’t like art. That doesn’t mean you can’t take him to your museum and let him talk to your—are they employees? Or just homeless people who draw? I don’t know.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing so whatever. “You’re a bag of dicks.”

“It’s a valid question, Zayn. Don’t be rude.” They stay quiet, and Liam doesn’t really understand why Zayn is looking at him the way he is. Can’t fathom why he’s chewing his lip raw or wringing his hands. He just broke up with his boyfriend, like today; there is no reason why he should be batting his eyelashes in Liam’s direction. “Just because I was nice to you for three minutes doesn’t mean I’m sleeping with you, so if you’re here to convince me otherwise you can save your alcohol breath and leave.”

Liam unfolds himself from the ground swiftly and hopefully with a decent amount of grace.

“When have I ever had to convince you to sleep with me,” he laughs. “You usually just—”

“You’re arrogant.”

“—jump right into bed. I’m not a hard sell, Liam.”

Liam goes back to creating small pieces of baked art and ignoring all crude comments that come from Zayn’s mouth. Veronica returns—not nearly soon enough—with a baby stroller in one hand and an apple pie in the other.

Noah comes and goes, thanking Liam with a fist bump and a nod that he doesn’t quite understand. Zayn has now made it underneath the table, the only sign of him there being his feet sticking out from the tablecloth.

He swears that Zayn trips him more than twice on purpose.

The event doesn’t die down until the sun has been down for a few hours.

When they go to pack up the tables Liam and Andy find them—Zayn and Noah—curled up around each other, using Zayn’s jacket as a blanket.

Each of them takes a picture on their phones and its Liam’s wallpaper for about a month.

He doesn’t tell anyone.

_***_

_2013 – Zayn’s new badass art studio on the good side of town (finally)_

_***_

Everyone is settled down, with kids and fireplaces and a mortgage and home appliances that cost more than Zayn’s living room furniture, but that’s not for him.

Veronica never stops nagging, and he’s got Andy in his hear about having children so his kids with have cousins to argue over Christmas presents with. Zayn knows he’s only asking this because Veronica refuses to go through labor even one more time.

Zayn doesn’t like to entertain the thought of himself with a wife and three kids. A husband and three kids. _Three fucking kids._

Thirty-two isn’t that old, not to him. He remembers being stoned and fucked out in someone’s basement at eighteen hearing that his sister was going to be a mom. The bender he went on after that phone call was one of the best times of his life.

So settling down is a no.

 _Haven_ is his baby.

Zayn is finally established, got a nice thing going. Art critics are calling and making visits to see pieces that they’ve overlooked in their pompous venture to line their pockets. He’s got a few of his photos on display, but the rest are true works of art. Beauty in the harshest of places.

There’s a brick wall transported form a run down building that houses a mural painted with sheen from a can. Hand prints large and small from the kids at the shelter down the street from where he used to live. A myriad of boxes that used to be someone’s home.

Liam says it looks like a garbage dump most of the time, but he makes art with fucking sticks of butter so what the hell does he know.

He pays the artists directly for their things, takes a risk and doesn’t care if he loses money. Zayn is giving people warm jackets and weekend stays in clean hotels and the pride that comes with someone valuing something that you made with your own hands.

This week’s exhibit is strictly personal, though. There’s no shame in capitalizing on the good fortune he’s stuck his foot into. Which really just means having stuck-up art collectors drop by and pay 800 bucks for a canvas that Naya spit up on.

Andy and Zayn think it’s fucking hilarious.

Liam and Veronica do not agree.

“You’re taking advantage of people,” Liam says with a red face, biting harshly into cookies that Naomi and her brother made for tonight’s show. “You should really tell them that the picture of crooked and straight lines that apparently showcases _stability and chaos_ is actually a photograph of _Noah’s eyelashes_.”

Andy chokes on a chocolate chip cookie. “Someone paid my entire car payment for a picture of my kid’s eyelashes?”

Zayn shrugs against a wall. “They’re nice eyelashes. It’s a Malik thing. You’re lucky we passed down good genes.”

“I _should be_ surprised by your behavior,” Liam grunts, rolling his eyes and picking up Naya when she shuffles near his feet. “But I’m used to it by now.”

Zayn coos at his niece when she waves her sticky fingers at him.

“Shouldn’t be complaining. Sold a black and white picture of your wide open mouth for about triple that number six months ago when this place first opened.”

Zayn used the money to buy a new dresser after his, um, _exploits_ helped him break the last one. Liam was there when it snapped; he should have had to contribute in purchasing a replacement.  

There’s a stubborn jut in Liam’s chin when he squawks, and his pretty brown eyes are blown wide and unsettled. Veronica appears from out of nowhere to take Naya from his hands before Liam drops her out of outraged shock.

Always a drama queen, that one.

“ _Why_ would you take a picture of me with my mouth open _in the first place?_ ”

“Because I couldn’t get a shot with it closed?” Zayn answers, nodding to a guest across the room.

His drink is empty, and the party is flowing so well around them that Zayn is starting to wonder what drew him to the corner in the first place. Liam folds his arms, his dress shirt stretching along the tops of his arms. The tint of his mouth is richer, darker. Zayn thinks it’s the wine. And it’s hanging open, shocked and round like he needs a dick in it.

Zayn laughs into his drink.

Maybe he can fix that later, after he’s drunk enough to drown out Liam’s voice.

“You’re impossible,” Liam breathes with dark eyes, and shit. Zayn must have given himself away with the sweep of his eyes and the posture of his hips. Sometimes he forgets that Liam can read him better than a lot of people can.

Zayn hates that.

“Why don’t we go back to mine later,” he asks, tongue wetting his lip. Tone teasing and happy. Liam won’t confess it, but Zayn sees the pinch of a smile twitching at the side of his mouth. “You can tell me how much you hate me. Over and over again.”

Liam scoffs, but he doesn’t say no. Just marches away letting Zayn enjoy the shape of him in slacks that hug his legs.

If Zayn had his camera, he could make another thousand bucks easily.

“You two have to get your shit together,” Veronica says once Liam is gone. Not out of sight, just not where Zayn can reach out and touch him. “I can’t tell if you’re married and just didn’t tell us, or if you really do hate each other.”

“We hate each other,” he quips over the edge of his glass, groaning into his drink when Liam squirms on one of the stools, spreading his legs and laughing at something no one important says. Liam’s hands are large and fidgety and groping his own thighs, running them up and down because he knows Zayn can see him.

“We definitely fucking hate each other,” Zayn bites out.

“You kind of have to learn to get along,” says Andy, obviously oblivious to his best friend touching himself across the room in a building full of strangers. Liam throws his head back and Zayn wants to fucking bite the pale line of his neck. “We don’t want to explain to a third kid why the both of you want to pull each other’s hair out one day. Then the next you’re kissing at Christmas parties and having sleepovers that we stopped having to explain to our fourteen year old son—thanks for that by the way, not cool. It’s fucking our children up emotionally, we think.”

Zayn can’t honestly repeat anything that was just said to him. “Yeah, I hear you.”

“Are you listening to us, Zayn?” Veronica kicks him in the shin. He still doesn’t really care.

“Not at all.”

“What if something happens to us? You really expect us to trust that you two can be good influences on our kids when you’re fucking and fighting all the time?”

He does catch that, though. Loud and clear. Annoyed that he has to look anywhere but the bar, he faces his sister with a glare that doesn’t last long because Naya is so goddamn cute that Zayn can’t stand it sometimes.

He pinches her nose because he’s _that uncle_ , and he’s maybe a little wine happy. “Look, V. Andy. We’re not just the fun uncles. We’re not like Ronald or Steven, we don’t come around twice a year with shitty gifts. We’re here all the time. I was here when Noah got his stitches and when Mimi got pneumonia. Liam grounded Noah once and you guys didn’t even know it. I’ve taken your kids to doctor’s appointments. I was here for Naya’s _birth_ , chrissakes.”

“You brought a fucking date to said child’s birth.”

Zayn waves a hand on front of Naya’s face. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is,” Andy asks.

“That we’re always going to be here for them, no matter what. I don’t want kids and Liam can’t find anyone to have kids with, so we love them like they’re our own. We would do anything for them, so get the fuck off our backs.”

“Zayn, we didn’t say—”

“Enough, man.” Zayn isn’t nearly drunk enough for this conversation to go on any longer. He hands Andy his drink. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I have plans for the rest of the night.”

“Use a condom,” Veronica shouts at his back.

“We always do.”

_***_

Liam doesn’t have a tattoo.

_***_

Andy has plenty of tattoos, and he’s begged Liam to go down to the parlor with him more times than he can count on one hand. But they live in a shitty town, and Liam is not getting ink tattooed into his skin in an establishment that used to be a gas station.

Zayn says the hole-in-the-wall places give the best tats, but he has a tattoo of a trash bin on his upper arm. So Liam can’t say he takes Zayn’s opinion too high into account.

Veronica says that Liam is scared of permanence. That somehow his lack tattoos means that he can’t commit. That’s utterly absurd, he tells her over coffee and a chocolate donut. She tells him that he won’t get his first until he’s held onto a relationship for longer than a year and a half.

Liam tells her to fuck off any time she brings it up.

If Zayn can sleep with three different women and men in seven days and six nights, and still manage to have a tiger on his forearm and a snake on his hip then Liam has nothing to be afraid of emotionally.

Because Zayn is the King of Not-Committing; Liam knows this for a fact.

Veronica sighs at him before she goes off to feed one of her kids, or maybe she’s going to fix the broken upstairs toilet—Liam never knows. She tells him that Zayn is not afraid of being in a serious relationship, he’s just afraid of not being taken seriously.

Liam isn’t sure he doesn’t already know that, too.

_***_

_2014 – achy bakey heart (Liam knows its lame, he knows)_

_***_

Being your own boss is amazing for the most part.

Liam can stretch out in bed and call one of his openers to run the store while he takes a walk around the park and stands in that opening of trees where the sun reaches his face. It’s the warmest place in the whole town, and Liam likes to enjoy the dogs barking and the flowers growing.

He can also leave early to get a good seat at Noah’s basketball game. Liam and Andy have to get there early, or the Parker’s will take up every inch of the front row and Veronica gets anxious if she can’t yell at the coach from the sidelines.

Liam likes to be organized, so he doesn’t have to rely on a shitty manager to order supplies a week after they need them. He can babysit Naya on her parents’ date night without getting fired, letting her practice walking while the customers coo at her chocolate cover cheeks that Liam almost never gets clean before Andy picks her up at eleven.

There isn’t one person employed at Liam’s bakery that he didn’t hand pick, which means he enjoys their company and work ethic.No water cooler disputes, in part because they get along so well. And also because they have no water cooler.

“Liam, your boy is back,” Taylor whispers, titling her head back and laughing with her mouth open at his exuberant response. She wraps her hands around a warm Styrofoam cup and flips off the cappuccino machine with one of her skinny fingers. “Oh my god that was priceless. Make that face again so I can take a picture. Please be more adorable. Please.”

He heats up. It’s bad enough that the customer they’re serving snickers into her lid while Taylor giggles into her hand and shoos her away.

Does everyone know that Liam likes Doc?

“I do not pay you to make fun of me,” he hisses, because the guy with the stethoscope and slim hips and wide smile is only three people away and Liam would like to make it through one visit without embarrassing himself completely. “Get Miss Jones her morning muffin and make sure it has enough nuts in it.”

Liam doesn’t hear himself say anything funny, but Taylor is still laughing and Liam is still frowning and their line isn’t getting any shorter. He tugs at the ends of her short, blonde hair and gets the muffin himself while she rings everything up.

He _does not_ look at Mr. Handsome tapping his feet, and Liam _does not_ sway his hips to the song Doc is humming. He _doesn’t._

The line moves too fast for Liam to compose himself.

“Nice moves you got there,” Doc says, and Liam hates that he has been in here every day for a month and a half and Liam does not know his name. “Need a dancing partner?”

Liam is terrible at this—talking to strangers. He can only flirt when he’s drunk or annoyed. That’s why Liam finds himself slinking out of Zayn’s apartment with no pants and no dignity at least once a year. Every other month.

Just a lot more often than he’d like to admit, okay.

“Um no, I’m—good. I’m good.” Liam can feel the room deflate, and he would very much like to know why the employees he pays to make food and take orders are solely watching Liam stick his foot in his mouth. “Do you want—want a cookie? Fresh, they are. They’re fresh. Just made them.”

He’s really bad at this.

The guy in front of him leans against the counter, lips twitching and it’s fucking contagious because yeah, Liam heard the words come out of his mouth unsubtly. He knows that it’s a little funny watching him fall all over himself.

“That’s not what I usually order—”

“Black coffee and a breakfast cheesecake, I know.” Liam wants to stamp his mouth shut before he finishes his sentence. “And, uh. That isn’t healthy, y’know. You’re a doctor—paramedic. Something. So of course _you know_ how bad cheesecake is. For your mouth, not your—not your taste buds. The cheesecake is actually really. It’s really good.”

He cannot make his mouth stop moving.

“Now how is it fair that you know all of these things about me,” he asks, dipping his head down before looking back up at Liam. He’s got his weight on the edge of Liam’s counter, and it makes Liam want to, like, lick the muscles on his arms. Liam tries very hard to pay attention. “But I don’t know anything about you. You think maybe we should fix that?”

“I could— _my name_. I could tell you my name.”

He nods, and Liam swallows maybe fifty times before Doc holds up his finger when Liam finally opens his mouth. “How about you tell it to me over dinner?”

_Um, yes._

He’s pulling a pen out of the pocket of his scrubs and Liam is trying not to hyperventilate at the cute little ponytail his hair is pulled back in. It’s weird, how Zayn very recently started wearing the same ponytail and Liam failed to be impressed.

Liam has got to stop thinking about Zayn, for fuck’s sake.

There’s a phone number written down and Liam notices that it doesn’t have a name underneath the scrawl. He takes it with shaky hands, and Liam thanks god that he hired someone as adequate as Taylor, who has already handed Doc his coffee and a tiny box with a slice of cheesecake inside.

“Call me,” he says while Liam tries to imprint every second of this interaction into his brain for later. “I get off at nine.”

“Babies, I. I have to babysit. It’s not my job, um. They’re my friend’s kids.”

He squints when he chuckles. “I’ve seen them around here, I think. Call me when they’re in bed if you want. I’ll wait up for you.”

Liam nods furiously, aware of the eyes on him and the prescription paper in his hands. “Okay.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it.” And he walks away, nodding thanks for the coffee and giving Liam an excellent reason to love the thinness of scrub pants.

Everyone waits for Doc to leave to make obscene catcalls at Liam.

Liam tells them all to go to hell.

_***_

Towels don’t just disappear.

They haven’t any legs or arms, nothing of the sort. At least not the ones Zayn purchased.

Zayn likes towels, can tell you exactly why and everything. Growing up in shitty foster homes and a slightly less shitty orphanage, the towels were garbage. You got to eat the good food on bad dishes every once in a while. The dust in your room might have flared your allergies, but the lighting from the crack in the window was excellent to pencil sketches of your broken toys.

But being a ragtag foster kid with dirty knuckles and stickers in the bottom of your feet, you never got to use decent towels.

Zayn was seventeen when he got his first apartment. He had a stack of towels that went clean up to his hip before he had a dresser or a bedroom set. It was on a street two towns over, and Zayn got paid to scrub graffiti from public bathrooms. He ate beans from a can and called his big sister from a payphone outside a 24-hour convenience store, but he had towels.

Big ones and lots of them.

It’s become a collection of sorts over the years. Zayn got a real job and moved to where his sister was shacked up with the younger and more boozed out version of Andy’s current self. He had to get a new apartment when he broke up with Travis, his long time _married_ ex-boyfriend who kept leaving scrubs and stethoscopes all over Zayn’s living room floor. But his new place still had a bathroom cabinet with a weird and random collection of the softest bathing towels Zayn could get his hands on.

And now they’re all disappearing.

Someone keeps walking off with his Egyptian cotton, zero-twist yarn towels from Matouk’s, and they’re doing it _on purpose_.

_***_

Liam doesn’t know why, but for some reason Zayn has the softest towels. All different kinds, like ones made with foreign materials and bamboo.

_Bamboo._

Liam didn’t even know you could make a bath towel out of bamboo.

He takes a couple because he can’t help it. Also because Zayn is an asshole who snaps his fingers and tells Liam to get out of his house if he’s going to keep talking. Nevermind that Liam is trying to make sure he’s not late for his appointments with his artists/homeless friends.

So he takes some home after he showers. A couple of them.

Maybe six.

Twelve _at the most,_ he swears.

They’re so _soft._

_***_

_2014 – same day, same time, less embarrassingly named establishment_

_***_

“No ‘otdog. _No no_ _no._ ” Naya doesn’t blink for the approximate three minutes her tirade lasts. “’otdogs _bad_.”

Zayn will not be giving his nieces hotdogs for lunch, then.

Naomi scrambles around Zayn and opens the refrigerator with yellow paint under her fingernails and green chalk on the end of her nose. The ends of Naya’s hair find their way into her mouth with the help of her chubby fingers. She takes turns between eating her split ends and telling her Uncle Zayn how much she hates hotdogs.

“Here baby,” Naomi sighs, fumbling to stick a straw in the top of a juice box before handing it to her little sister, whom immediately sticks it in her mouth and hollows her olive, tanned cheeks. “She doesn’t like meat, Unc.”

Zayn squints warily at her. “I’ve seen her eat a full steak by herself.”

“She’s three,” Naomi scoffs, pinning her bangs behind her ear. “She can’t finish a bowl of cereal by herself. Plus she’s going to be eating cake and ice cream soon. You can’t feed her before her party.”

Naya is smiling around her little, curved straw and Zayn is just glad she didn’t start crying because she was almost impossible to soothe these days. He holds out his hand for a high five; Zayn taught her how to do that. Pretty proud of himself, he is.

Naya throws an empty box of juice at his face and slaps her hands together.

Zayn pretends he doesn’t hear Naomi snort into her art project.

“God forbid,” Zayn says, picking up the grape juice and setting Naya on the floor before thinking better of it and bouncing her on his hip. “We wouldn’t want her too full to get hyped up on a year’s worth of sugar.”

“Liam makes sugar-free cupcakes.”

“There is no such thing as sugar-free with Liam.”

A strand of Naya’s curly hair refuses to cooperate with Zayn’s persistence, which prompts him to leave it be until he wets his hand in the kitchen sink and makes Naya sputter when he gets her face wet with little sprinkles that fall from his knuckles.

But her hair looks less like Zayn just pulled her from a nap he was supposed to wake her from several hours ago.

The face Naomi makes is one that Zayn vows to paint, lips in a flat line and eyebrows pressed together. She’s absently running a brush across her stock paper and Zayn can’t wait to hang all of her work up on every inch of his apartment one day.

“I don’t know if that’s a sex thing. _No such thing as sugar free with Liam,_ ” she mimics and Zayn holds Naya’s head to his chest and covers her little fragile ears because he is _mortified_. He plays it cool, though. Real cool. “But I’ve _seen_ Liam make calorie cutting cupcakes and he doesn’t use any sugar. So you’re wrong.”

She angles her head down and away so Zayn can panic about his lifestyle choices appropriately.

“You’re gross,” he tells her eventually. “And twelve. You shouldn’t even know about sex things.”

“Noah knows about sex. Marcy Grossman told me—”

Zayn tuts at her and tugs her up by the hood of her jacket. “Nope, don’t wanna hear about it. I’m too young for this shit. Leave your supplies here, we have to pick your brother up from practice because your mom and dad wanted to have _a spa day_. Pure rubbish to me, if you’re asking.”

“Not asking,” Naomi replies, holding her hands out for Naya. Zayn gets her pack for her, ‘s the least he can do for making her carry the kid. “I think it’s sweet that they want to spend time together.”

“You’re still young enough to believe in romance.” Zayn taps his pockets for his keys with one hand and drums his temples with the other, trying to think about anything he was forgetting. He’s got both kids and his keys, though. Anything else he can replace. “Just wait until Noah and Marcy Grossman pop out a litter of kids that you’re stuck babysitting all the time. Won’t think quality couple time is so sweet then, will ya?”

Zayn kisses the top of her head, because he’s nice and he’s kidding. Kind of. There’s no one he loves more than his family. Andy included, but not Liam. Definitely not Liam.

He wouldn’t trade one of Mimi’s art exhibits for the world, and even when Naya is throwing noodles at his head and gnawing on the tips of his fingers he enjoys her loud, bubbly company. Noah is rough around the edges lately, spends a lot of time in his room and wears his hair down to his shoulders, but Liam and Veronica can still get through to him.

And Andy and Zayn remember being that age, they know it’ll pass.

They’ve got all the time in the world to wait out Noah’s bad attitude, no worries.

Naomi makes sure her sister is all buckled in her car seat before Zayn puts Veronica’s minivan in reverse. He ducks his head until he’s sure none of his neighbors see him driving this thing around. The important neighbors; the ones Zayn has seen naked.

“So sorry that we interrupted your busy schedule of getting drunk and riding your motorcycle.”

Zayn doesn’t really have a response for that.

“You should be,” he huffs, irritated with himself for being bested by a pre-teen. Not even a proper fucking teenager yet.

“Mom says you’re having a midlife crisis. The only way to fix it is to have a baby or get married. That’s what she says. You should do one of those things.”

Zayn turns on the radio, ashamed that he didn’t switch it on the second he got into the car. After Mimi turned ten, she became less tolerable for long periods of time. He hoped that phase ended soon. Or that her parents stopped sending her to his house every weekend James Shay worked at the Slippery Nipple. Zayn was losing an awful haul of relationship chances to this babysitting gig.

Next weekend he was definitely making other plans.

“You just wait until I talk to your mother,” Zayn mumbles to nobody.

He thinks he hears Naya and Naomi giggling over the music.

Zayn cranks up the volume.

_***_

_2014 – Naya’s birthday party (really a party for adults while three year old yawn and eat cake and play with stuffed animals and tea sets)_

_***_

“Party’s pretty lame, huh?” Zayn crashes onto the sofa with Noah. He’s been on his phone the whole time, and it’s not like him to ignore his sisters. “Who you texting? Hot girl? Hot guy? Anyone I should be worried about?”

Zayn ruffles his nephew’s hair, laughs when he gets flustered and messes with Zayn’s right back. They could be twins, the two of them. If Noah didn’t have his father’s chin.

“Not really into guys, Unc,” he huffs, parting his hair and flattening it with both hands. “Her name is Victoria and she plays on the girl’s basketball team.”

“Wasn’t aware that chicks played basketball.”

“That’s sexist,” Noah insists. “She’s really good. Mom told me I could go to her party when the babies fell asleep.”

“You’re like twelve, why are you going to parties?”

The sound that comes out of Noah’s mouth is entirely too indignant and entitled for a boy his age. “I’m fifteen. I’ll be sixteen in four months.”

Zayn raises his hands in surrender and shoots a smile at the single mom in the corner. “Well excuse me. Didn’t know you were such an old man.” Noah follows Zayn’s line of sight to the poorly decorated corner and rolls his eyes. “What do you say you help your Uncle Zayn find some midnight entertainment before you go off on your fuckin’ rave? Sound good?”

Noah’s phone buzzes in his right hand, and he lifts a finger in the direction of the kitchen with the other. “Liam’s right over there. Problem solved.”

His shoulders sag, and Zayn’s just fast enough to remove his legs from the stampede of children that corral around the wooden coffee table where the frosted cookies are piled. “What is it with you kids thinking I’m always trying to shag your uncle Liam?”

Zayn almost loses a limb trying to swipe a cookie from the table. Noah shakes beside him and smiles with crumbs on the side of his mouth, holding up his shortbread in victory while Zayn slinks back into the couch.

Mouth full, Noah asks, “What’s up with you _always shagging_ Uncle Liam?”

Point taken, Zayn shrugs.

“Well not tonight, come on.” Zayn straightens his knees and tries not to trip over thirty pounds of toddler with his hand around Noah’s wrist. “Can’t have you moping around all night.”

“Because I will be much happier trying to help you get laid.”

Zayn catches him with a side glance, bumping into Liam on his way to the foyer where everyone older than six is huddled. Liam fixes his collar and steps away from Zayn as if he’s been shocked. Even plays it up with a grimace and nearly loses his footing over a long piece of glittery ribbon.

Zayn puckers his lips and blows him a kiss because he likes the way Liam’s bottom lip looks when he’s pouting.

Noah is still at his side, and Zayn’s arm goes around his shoulders. He fusses with Noah’s hands until he slides his phone into his pocket. “You really don’t see why we all think you should be married and annoying somewhere else? Really?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, little guy. You know any of these people, hm? Anyone definitely looking for a partner?”

Noah’s not too keen on being ignored, but he shrugs and smiles anyway. “Let’s go to the second living room,” he says after a minute, scratching his head. “That’s where the Neighborhood Watch usually hags out. Dad keeps the booze and the board games in there.”

Zayn never fails to be astounded that his sister owns a house with _two_ fucking living areas. They ate raw noodles out of a package when they were eight, and Zayn remembers showering in a gym restroom for six months before Child Services found them under a bridge. Now Veronica is wiping noses with an embroidered blanket and Zayn drives a motorcycle that he actually paid for.

There are times when Zayn struggles to pay his rent. And he knows that Andy works at a bar on the weekends to pay for Noah’s basketball uniform and Naya’s speech therapy. Things could be worse, have been worse. But Zayn is glad they’re here now, safe and warm and _alive_ getting tipsy and celebrating the birth date of their third child.

It feels good to have family, Zayn thinks to himself while he shuffles with his nephew to the other side of the house. It puts warmth in his chest that he can’t get rid of. It’s nice.

“I know your mom hates the neighbors, so why does she invite them to all her parties?”

Noah’s mouth turns up then, and Zayn sees the little kid he knew about six months ago through a small window of time that lasts for a few seconds at most. Less broody and sluggish and _fucking angry_. More mischievous. Zayn likes it.

“’Cause they’re fuck— _freaking_ hilarious,” Noah corrects himself after Zayn’s fingernails find the skin at his collar. Can’t have him cursing, Zayn will catch all the blame on that one. “If you’re looking for entertainment the Neighborhood Watch is definitely it. I’ve never seen adults that fucke— _messed_ up. Not even you and Liam.”

“Still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

_***_

Zayn does not get to meet the Neighborhood Watch.

Liam runs off to tell Veronica that Zayn and Noah are headed in that direction and she stops them immediately. Pulling each of them by the thin skin of their ears, she yanks them from the wooden sliding doors just in time to turn them around and drag them toward the kitchen.

The yelps of pain go unnoticed by the guests and Naya’s group of demons claps when they go by, hunched and trying to keep up with Veronica’s steps with twisted bodies and aching ears.

“What do you think you’re doing boys?” She asks with a fast smile and eyebrows that suggest Zayn’s behavior is worse than it actually is.

“Trying to have fun,” Zayn insists, his voice a little high because being pulled a good twenty feet by the earlobe _fucking_ _hurts._ “What is your problem? Why are you so mean, V? Would you— _let me go._ ”

She only stops when they’re in the kitchen, and there’s Liam with his shirt buttoned to his throat and his smile trying to bust his lips. That’s how Zayn knows he’s to blame. Liam is only happy when he’s causing Zayn some sort of pain.

Veronica releases her son first, kissing the side of his head and pushing him towards the living room chaos by the shoulder. “Go clean up the toys in the playroom with your father and then call your friend. You can leave as soon as they get here, baby.”

She still has a firm grip on the bottom of Zayn’s ear.

“Cool, thanks mom!”

He fucking leaves Zayn there like the little traitor he is.

Liam’s resigned to standing there with his arms crossed, leering at Zayn until his sister lets him go and shoves him in the direction of the sink. Liam makes a move to catch him, the heat of his hands lines the small of Zayn’s back before Liam thinks better of it and retracts them, letting Zayn sputter and stand on his own.

“There is a reason we only let you loose in mixers where you’re fully entertained,” Zayn is told, a yawn overcoming Veronica and stopping her short. Her nose scrunches and he has a hard time getting the full effect of her yelling when she looks so goddamn precious. “Those people will eat you alive and we won’t be able to stop it until it’s too late. Also there are three divorcees in that room and I don’t want to deal with your shit tonight.”

The wrinkle in the middle of her forehead has gotten worse over the years. Zayn remembers the first time he saw it, when Veronica was pregnant with Naya and busy trying to keep Naomi from breaking her leg on the trampoline in their backyard.

It’s only gotten deeper since then.

Zayn knows his sister isn’t worried about him picking up some lonely ladies at her kid’s birthday party. “So is this a meltdown about your youngest daughter turning three or your fifteen year-old son going to his first party? Tell me so I can plan my speeches accordingly.”

Liam is good at this stuff; talking. He does enough of it that it’s a given. So Zayn turns to him when Veronica gazes down at the floor for a beat too long. There’s a rush that shoots up Zayn’s spine when Liam shuffles closer beside him. “Is she going to cry?”

“I’m not going _to cry,_ jackass.” She says, wiping away what look a lot like tears.

“Good fucking job, Liam.”

Liam is horrified and Zayn is wrapping his arms around his sister, tugging Liam by the hand because group hugs are supposed to be therapeutic. And maybe Liam’s looking a little good over there in his slacks.

Zayn snakes his arm around both of their waists.

“They’re growing up so fast!”

“I know.” Zayn pats her head.

“I feel so old!”

“You’re not old, honey.” Liam rubs her back.

“I wear mom jeans!”

Neither of them says anything.

Zayn does sneak a pinch to Liam’s ass. It’s a nice ass.

He gets a middle finger above Veronica’s head, so Zayn does it again. This time, though, he swears Liam pushes himself back into his hand and it’s not a bad surprise, just one he wasn’t expecting. Zayn keeps his hand on the swell of Liam’s slacks even when Veronica wipes the corner of her eye and insists she’s fine.

“If you’re that worried don’t let Noah go to this party. He’ll get over it.”

“No, no. I’m not doing that to him. He’s my baby, that’s all.” Veronica climbs on a barstool and sets her chin in her hands. “You’ll know when you have kids. You always want to protect them. You’re always going to worry.”

“I’ll just take your word for it,” Zayn says.

Veronica is distracted by some mother that comes in asking for more juice, and Liam takes that time to snap at Zayn. “Can you not console your own sister without thinking about sex? Is that possible for you?”

Zayn stands at Liam’s side, pushes his chest to Liam’s shoulder and flexes his hand on the curve of flesh in his palm. Zayn watches Liam’s throat move as he swallows and it’s impossible for him to miss Liam’s mouth open around a gasp. “Can you not be so fucking needy? Look at yourself, Liam. _Begging_.”

“Fuck you.”

“If that’s what you’d prefer.”

Zayn is inches away from kissing the shell of Liam’s ear, or maybe pressing his lips to the pulse in his throat but Veronica is slapping her hand on the kitchen counter and the both of them are looking over to see her standing with Andy and Noah. No one looks impressed or surprised, and Zayn thinks Noah might have had a point earlier.

“It does me no good to keep him away from the desperate housewives if you’re just going to give him some in my kitchen, Liam.”

“I was not giving him _anything,_ ” Liam squawks. Zayn wants to paint the flutter of his eyelashes tonight, after he kisses the bumps of his spine.

“You wanna get outta here, Payne?” Zayn ignores the collective groan of their audience, never straying from Liam’s face.

Liam can’t tell a lie, and Zayn isn’t going to make him do anything he’s not into. Zayn gets his answer from the flash of teeth sinking into Liam’s bottom lip.

“I promised I would help with the dishes,” he says, pulling himself away from Zayn and hovering near the sink until he gains enough cognizance to turn on the faucet and start scrubbing plates. “If you’re really that interested in a bedtime partner there is a bar six blocks from here. Pig.”

They all roll their eyes at him, Noah included. “I told you finding Liam would save us time and trouble.”

A horn honks outside in time to stop Zayn from blushing. “Shut up, Noah. Your ride is here.”

Andy and Veronica are the first ones to leave, Noah lagging behind and begging them not to embarrass him.

Liam and Zayn are gone before they get back.

_***_

_2014 – same night at Zayn’s apartment_

_***_

There are times when he wakes up to kisses on his forehead in the middle of the night and wonders why he doesn’t fall in love when Zayn kisses the tips of his ears. Liam closes his eyes and imagines what it would be like if he settled down in these sheets for hours after Zayn finished teasing the skin of his thighs.

Sentimentality settles into his bones when he inhales whatever Zayn is hiding in his dresser. Normally Liam would tell him to fuck off, because they weren’t teenagers; they had responsibilities. Tonight is not usual, and Liam curls up in blue sheets with the taste of smoke chasing Zayn from the corners of his mouth.

“Why aren’t we, you know,” Liam moves his hands until Zayn settles them with circling thumbs and a kiss to his knuckles. It’s too nice and Liam feels too warm—it’s a narcotic effect that won’t last the night. “Why aren’t we together? We would be good together. ‘Could fix you.”

Liam is high, not stupid. He waits for Zayn to drop his hand and banish him from the bedroom. He coughs, laughing into Liam’s ear. “But do you think _I_ could fix _you?_ ”

Liam is surprised and huffing, leaning a naked shoulder against Zayn’s side and sighing into the room. Everything makes his eyes widen, and Zayn never lets his hand go. “There’s nothing to fix, jackass.”

“Okay,” and that’s that. Zayn turns into Liam and opens his mouth on a kiss.

Zayn devours, and Liam forgets where he is and why he’s here and what he’s doing until Zayn’s nails catch the coarse hair underneath Liam’s navel. “We have good sex,” he says into Zayn’s chin. “We have _really_ good sex.”

Zayn’s mouth flutters at the end of Liam’s eyebrow. “We have _great_ sex. I don’t think that’s enough.”

Liam is not stupid. Liam knows that when the lights aren’t dimmed and the curtains aren’t drawn that Zayn will retract his fingers and find someone new to lie in his sheets. Liam’s aware of the talking alcohol and drugs in Zayn’s system, forcing words into his lips that he would ever say.

Liam moans into the air and Zayn flattens his tongue. His nails bite into the skin of Liam’s hips and he knows that’s a _warning_. He keeps his writhing to a minimum but it feels so good.

Zayn shuts his thoughts up with a mouth around Liam’s cock and a finger slick and sliding in his hole. He knows what he’s doing and what he’s shutting down. Zayn is smart, even under the influence of weed and expensive beer.

Liam flexes his fingers on Zayn’s shoulders and wonders—not for the first time, not for the last—why he can’t fall in love with Zayn at all. When it’s so clear that the two of them are entirely too fucked up to be loved by anyone else.

He wakes up with Zayn’s arms snaked around his middle, cock soft at Liam’s back, legs intertwined. Zayn is patient and kind and aggressive and beautiful and what Liam needs when they’re in this room. Or the bathroom across the hall. The table in the kitchen. The counter in the bathroom. The stall at the bar.

Whenever he touches Liam with intention, there’s something that makes Zayn’s blood run a little less cold. Liam knows that when it’s light out and it’s time for him to go home that Zayn will hate the way he talks and Liam will steal a bamboo towel from the bathroom.

The clock reads 10:37 when he wakes up after the second round of smoking and the third round of something else. There’s a number in his pocket that he needs to dial. A number that might get Liam his happy ending and his two point five kids in a suburban house.

Zayn opens his eyes and catches Liam picturing a fenced in backyard and an upstairs master bedroom. He doesn’t know how Zayn does it, reads him and knows that he’s thinking of commitment and marriage and walking down the isle and baking his own wedding cake. Just that he does and he kisses it from Liam’s head with stale breath and wandering hands.

Liam does not make the call.

He gets a phone call instead.

***

Liam doesn’t remember what they say, exactly. Just how they say it. How devastated they are on the other end of the telephone. How washed and worried their voices are when they say, “ _Mr. Payne, there’s been an accident._ ”

Liam cannot tell you whose socks he put on; can tell you that they squeezed his toes and wringed the bone of his ankle and he hopped once, twice, three times to get into the jeans on his side of the bed.

He’s known for years, an entire decade, that he is Andy’s emergency contact. Veronica can’t be, no because Andy would have to explain why he’s getting his stomach pumped and why he fell off a ladder and why he’s unconsciously taking up space in the emergency room at least three times a year.

They’re always laughing, though. When they call him the doctor has a joke in his throat and he has to tell Liam that his friend’s foot got stuck on a broken piece of sidewalk resulting in a broken ankle. Or he jumped off the trampoline wrong while he was watching the kids and broke his jaw bone.

They’re not laughing and Liam isn’t sure if he’s supposed to be crying.

His cheeks are wet and Zayn’s phone is ringing.

Liam forgets that he’s there, can’t hear him saying: “What’s wrong? Liam, tell me. _Dammit Liam._ ”

They fall silent and there are still voices in Liam’s ear.

Liam knows that face, knows that just moments ago his face was stretched with the same worry and panic he sees on Zayn’s brow. The room is dark and Liam’s heart tries to jump out of his chest. Zayn nods and mumbles and Liam’s cheeks are still damp and he can’t hear anything important over the sound of blood rushing to his ears.

Zayn is Veronica’s emergency contact.

“Liam I need you to stop fucking crying,” Zayn doesn’t shout. Liam doesn’t know why he’s not yelling over Liam’s hiccups. Liam doesn’t know why the doctor wouldn’t tell them what was wrong. Liam doesn’t know why they wouldn’t put Andy or Veronica on the phone. “Get the keys and get in the car. I’ll be there in a second.”

Liam knows. He does. Liam does know, deep down.

There are lips at his forehead and Liam can’t tell you the reasoning for that, or why it calms him down for a fraction of time. Zayn’s fingers wrap around the tops of his arms and Liam doesn’t want to do this or be this close to him when they’re not fighting or fucking.

The dark of the night is unforgiving and the roads are empty.

Liam doesn’t remember passing any cars.

He’s not sure how he gets one foot in front of the other, and he’s not sure why Zayn insists on parking and making Liam walk in alone.

Liam does know that the water on Zayn’s face and the tears pooled into the jut of his collarbones will never leave his memory for as long as he has air in his lungs.

Liam knows that the eyes are too sympathetic when he runs to the front desk. Too kind. Too much sorrow in them. Too much haste to get him to where he’s going. They touch the back of his neck and lead him down the hall and their steps are too swift.

He sees Noah, broken and fragile but _breathing_ in a hospital bed. His hair is matted and his arm is in a sling and Liam’s steps are lighter because if Noah is fine then—

_“—we’re lucky there were any survivors at all—”_

Liam’s hand was on the doorknob but it drops. His fingers find the glass and he knows what they’re saying behind him. What they mean in the snippets of voices Liam can hear. They’re all talking so soft, so slow.

“Where are his parents?” He thinks it comes out complete and competent but he’s not willing to bet on it. His hands patter on the glass and Liam can’t look at the blood crusting Noah’s skull for a second longer. “Andy Samuels. Veronica—where. What room are they—where did you take them?”

The myriad of grief kicks Liam in the stomach. Makes his heart stop. He knows that much. He’s hunched and they’re patting his back and he thinks the acid in his throat might be puke. They’re whispering and cooing and telling him _it’s going to be fine_ and all Liam can hear is the pounding of work boots on tile.

Zayn’s fingers are in his hair and Liam feels sorry for him. Knows that when he stops at Noah’s door and his shoulders drop in relief that it is all for naught because twenty-seven seconds ago he was in that spot living that hope and it was for nothing.

He casts his eyes down at Liam, who straightens his back and makes a terrible effort of stiffening his shoulders and not painting the white walls with the sickness in the bed of his stomach. Liam holds his fingers over his gaping mouth, trying to restrain his sobs because he’s not sure if Noah was awake when he became an orphan.

“I’m so sorry,” he says when Zayn stares at him for three long seconds, eyebrows furrowed and head shaking. “Zayn—I’m so. They’re not—they didn’t.”

Because Liam will be absent a best friend and Zayn will lose a piece of his soul.

“Don’t _you fucking_ say it,” Liam remembers the denial in his voice, how it shakes and how Zayn’s bones crumble. His knees stop working and Liam tries to catch him but it’s all so sudden and every person who reaches for Zayn is pushed back by a pile of brokenness on the floor. “ _Don’t,_ ” he hiccups and Liam is sobbing, seeing this. “Don’t touch me! _Just—_ bring me my sister. My sister.”

“Zayn,” Liam tries to say. It gets caught in his throat and he chokes on his tears.

“ _My sister._ ”

Liam doesn’t remember how they get there, pressed against the hospital door with their arms wrapped around one another. Liam doesn’t forget that he will no longer have a best friend, no. No, he cries for Andy. He thinks of Andy’s face and Andy’s hair and Andy’s smile.

He’s not sure when, but he does know that someone brings Naomi and she’s pushing back her bangs and holding her infant sister and Zayn can’t look at them while he hugs them. Liam thinks it has something to do with shared genetics and cheekbones because Zayn goes pale when he sees them and he’s too stiff to hug.

Naya won’t stop crying, she doesn’t know what’s happening and Liam keeps her close to his chest. Naomi is too big to crawl in Zayn’s lap, but she does anyway and he presses apologetic kisses into her hair. They’re left alone, there on the floor with Noah at their back—asleep and unaware of the world he’s going to wake up to.

Liam cries for them all.

And when they fall asleep, Liam opens the door and deposits Naya to the left of her uncle.

Noah is awake and looking at the ceiling. His head doesn’t move when Liam walks in, when he sits by his side, or when he takes his hand. Long and black, his hair has fallen around his head and there’s a track of tears on either side of his face. He knows.

At the very least, he suspects.

There’s a look of hope, and it sends a run of shivers down Liam’s spine—how much he looks like Zayn did hours ago. “ _Did they—?_ Where are Mom and Dad?”

Liam shakes his head.

He holds Noah until the sun comes back up.

Liam loses his best friend on a Friday.

He buries him on a Wednesday.

He only remembers the parts that hurt the most.

Which is every single one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it had to happen.....


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was so hard to write, just bc i couldn't get their reactions all right. in hindsight i see why it's an easier to have ony tiny baby losing their parents instead of three cognitive children/young adults. mind you this chapter is full of fillers that im not 100% happy with, but i tried really hard to write this as fast as possible. 
> 
> luckily for you guys, my boss has cut some of my hours which means im broke but also free to write more, so it shouldnt take as long next time to post a chapter.

_***_

_At night, on a couch not big enough for two grown men_

_***_

They can’t sleep in their bed.

Liam can drive Andy’s car and only cry for twenty minutes. Zayn has prided himself on not hurling rocks on each neighbor that moseys up the sidewalk, has told Liam was much over sleepy shots of Saki.

What Zayn _can’t_ do, is focus on pictures of Veronica without his fingers around the neck of liquid poison, but Zayn was irreparably damaged beforehand. It isn’t a shock to anyone that Liam can’t find the correct band-aid to stop the bleeding of the bottle corked between Zayn’s lips.

He can wipe Naya’s nose in the same kitchen her mother has served Christmas dinner; and Liam can throw out the sugar-free birthday cake that’s sitting in the refrigerator. It’s not easy, but he carts Noah upstairs with his sluggish pulse beating right next to his cradled arm.

Naomi hasn’t stopped to cry after they schlepped past the hospital doors, and it worries Liam for two sleepless nights in a row before he finds her, face blue in front of the living room television. Pixilated shadows flicker across her face, and Liam observes Naomi watching her mother giggle over a newborn baby with matted hair and squirming toes.

Liam stands in the doorway until Mimi has collapsed into herself with wet and heavy eyes, and a tired body.

At least she makes it through a row of tapes, though. At least she can bear to do that.

Zayn and Liam, cannot sleep in their bed.

There’s a presence in the house, one that cracks bones in Liam’s shoulders and robs Noah’s lungs of air.

The same pressure forces Zayn’s nose into the back of the couch, and his hands into the tattered ends of each throw blanket.

“I can smell her here,” Zayn chokes when Liam folds himself in the seat next to him. Liam’s eyes never leave Zayn’s ruddy knuckles while he paws them through the tangles in his hair. He shakes his head: left to right, and right to left. “I can feel her walking beside me. Fucking see her everywhere. There are so many pictures. Goddamn photographs that I took, but it’s not the worst part. I can smell her. I can smell her shampoo and her perfume and—everything. Everywhere.”

Liam doesn’t tell Zayn that he knows this. That he’s overwhelmed with the scent of her chamomile lotion and he misses Veronica like a missing arm, but there’s a rib _gone_ from his chest where Andy used to be.

Zayn doesn’t need to hear that.

Zayn might already know.

“Andy would call me a pussy for crying in his Man Cave,” Zayn says to no one.

He’s moving his lips in a pleasant manner, but the unconscious slump of his shoulder makes it hard to believe he’s aware that he’s actually making a sound. The rest of the house is sniffles and silence, leaving Liam grateful for something to counter the sound of blood rushing to his brain.

Zayn rubs at the end of his nose. “He would definitely have some choice words for me right now, I think. Tell me to turn on a game.”

There’s an uncertainty in his voice that pains Liam. Like Zayn really didn’t know Andy after all this time. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe Liam didn’t know Veronica that well, either.

It still hurts the same, he imagines. Still tears your fucking world apart when you lose someone.

“He wouldn’t call you a pussy.” Liam declares after a long bout of stillness, unfurling his legs and expanding himself until he and Zayn align in an oddly comforting half-hug that doesn’t make his heart beat any steadier. “Andy was quite the feminist in his late years. He’d tell you to pick a different word, then explain why comparing yourself to a woman while you’re in a sensitive state is very wrong.”

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.” Zayn doesn’t laugh and it takes Liam a second to realize that maybe he doesn’t remember how to, not just yet.

“I am. I’ve heard him have that talk with Noah more times than I can count on two hands.” A dizziness gathers at the front of his skull, and Liam has to close his eyes for a second. Zayn squeezes his hand, but Liam doesn’t remember corseting their fingers together. “Andy wanted Noah to know that women aren’t weak.”

There’s a photo right in front of them, and there are more words on Liam’s tongue. Ones that make more sense. Ones that stay with the pattern of lightheartedness. All he can think now, though, is how much Andy loved enough to blossom into this man that Liam didn’t recognize all the time; but one he was proud to get to know.

On the coffee table Andy and Veronica are smiling, baby in their arms and two shining kids at their sides. It’s hard to link a story with each photo when there’s a similar one on the mantle. And the bar. And all along the hallway. This one isn’t any more special than the family photo by the downstairs restroom, or the individual shots of each kid on the refrigerator.

“Women _aren’t_ weak.” Zayn speaks into the air above Liam’s head.

They stare at that picture for a long time, lights off and kids upstairs fighting their own nightmares and swimming in their own ghosts. He doesn’t know what catches Zayn’s eye but Liam’s sure it’s his sister, who fought long and hard to keep her family together.

“No they’re not,” Liam says. “They most certainly are not.”

They both fall asleep blinking back tears and whispering to whatever entity is listening in the stars that Veronica will lend them the strength to one day open that door.

Liam and Zayn can’t sleep in their bed because they can’t even step into their room. They’re too afraid, Liam thinks, of what will seep out if they do. They can’t handle anymore ghosts, not right now.

They just don’t have the strength.

_***_

_Monday – the kitchen Liam loves to hate_

_***_

“Marshmallows on yams, you say?” Liam tilts his head, unsure of what this goofy, long haired stranger is doing in the front doorway. There’s a pan of food in his hands that doesn’t sit well with Liam’s stomach, but he steps back anyway and welcomes him inside.

Still puzzled, Liam shuts the door. “I’m not sure that’s morally right, putting marshmallows on yams… Harry, you said it was? Harry, I’m a chef.”

Pompous is not what he’s going for, but he has certain qualifications that tell him not to mix the aforementioned ingredients.

Liam has opened and closed this door more times than he can count in the past two days. They’re left to sulk alone at night, but in the morning and afternoon they’re bombarded by covered dishes and pie pans.

Noah has yet to come down from his room, and when they check on him he’s folded on the end of his bed with his hair pulled back and his arms folded. Naomi brings him platefuls of food that show up clean and empty in the kitchen sink the next morning—three, one for breakfast and lunch and dinner—which makes Liam less fretful.

“Oi, pop the door open, there’s someone else coming through.” Harry twists his watch the right way, jingling his wrist and pursing his lips. “Should be any moment now. Calder is always running late. And they’re not yams, _Mr. Chef._ They’re sweet potatoes and they’re delicious.”

Marshmallows on mash is even worse, he wants to say. Harry’s most unconventional looking, body leaning at an angle when Liam looks at him for too long, hair in a ponytail, and a posh coat over a hooded sweatshirt. His jaw ticks as he looks around, and there’s a trace of red lingering at the rims of his eyelids.

“Andy always wanted to try sweet potato casserole,” he says, confusing Liam even more. “I had to go on a trip to The States and he made me promise to bring him some back. There’s this place by my hotel, makes the best American food you’ll ever have. Did you know they put coconuts in pie?” Harry chances a glance at Liam, taking his hands out of his pockets and waiting for an answer that he gets in a perplexed look on Liam’s face. “Well they do. ‘s amazing.”

Liam promised himself he wouldn’t cry today—tonight, maybe—he has too much to do. A list of things that don’t care if Liam is sad, or misplaced, or confused. Harry smiles at him with one side of his mouth, looking at his feet before lifting his head apologetically. “Sorry. I’m a little watery at not getting to say goodbye. Can’t believe he—seems a bit silly is all, that someone can go their whole life without trying sweet potato casserole.”

“To be fair, I think he dodged a bullet,” Liam says with a relieved sigh at Harry’s guffaws.

“You’re obviously never had marsh on mash before.” Harry seats himself on a stool, legs swinging back and forth before finding a home on the ground. “Unless you’re going to dig in soon, you might want to refrigerate that.”

Most of the guests deliver their condolence cakes and leave their phone number to be contacted for a funeral date. Liam works the yams between a wrapped ham and a fruit pie before turning on his heel and looking between Harry and the open door in the next room.

Sensing Liam’s inquiry, Harry pats the stool next to him. “I promise Eleanor will be here any moment now. She’s got a million things to fetch from the car. My briefcase is one of them; I’m always forgetting that.”

That doesn’t make anything clearer, and Liam really wishes Zayn would shake off his hangover and come into the kitchen. He’s somewhere in the backyard hobbling around and looking at the sky for answers he can’t find anywhere else.

Liam fetches the time from his own watch and frowns. It’s after three, though, so Zayn should be on his way inside now.

“It’s slipped my mind to ask what you’re here for, Harry.”

“I’m Andy and Veronica’s lawyer.” Before Liam can open his mouth, Harry stops him with a waving hand and a predicted nod. “I know I don’t look much like a lawyer. Tell me any joke you’d like, I’ve heard them all before. But Andy made me some pretty cool shirts, and I live right down the street. He trusts me.”

Those aren’t the usual requirements for a founded friendship, he thinks.

“How come I’ve never heard about you,” Liam wants to know. “And what are you here for now? I know they’ve paid the house off. And the car. Isn’t it a little early to come taking things away from _their children—_ ”

“We’re not here for any of that,” floats a voice from the doorway. A lengthy woman walks inside without greeting, arms bulked down with three separate briefcases and a small lock box. “Why the long face? Did he give you the casserole? I told him that any casserole with baked marshmallows gives people the wrong impression.”

“It does _not._ ”

She spaces an armful of binders and cases along the kitchen counter before deciding that the dining room table is a better place to spread out her things. Liam quietly follows Harry into the room questioning how these people are so familiar with this house.

The lady slicks a piece of her hair back with her hand and throws a stack of stapled papers at Harry’s chest. “He already doesn’t like you and I’ve only left you alone for three minutes. You’re a fairly likable person, Harry. It has to be the sweet potatoes. You can’t go around adding sugar to just anything.”

“You put sugar in your coffee, Eleanor.”

Harry chooses to sit at the head of the table, moving when he’s given a look that Liam doesn’t think bodes well for any of them. Eleanor sits in his place. “As all sane human beings should, Harold.”

“Can someone tell me what the hell is going on here?” Liam’s mind is a little messed up, and their unexplained chattering doesn’t help. He scrubs at his eye sockets, and rubs his arms until the chill in his bones fades into heated irritation. “Why are there two lawyers here? What do you _need?_ Because I have plenty of things to do today. Starting with finding a casket for my best friend and his wife. On top of that, I have to find a way to get their orphaned children into appropriate dress so they can bury their parents days from now. That doesn’t leave me with the time to discuss sugared coffee and gross American dishes.”

Liam’s breath leaves him in a whoosh, and he’s got rust in his mouth when he finishes talking. He can feel them looking on, heads darting anywhere but where Liam makes attempts to drill holes into his skull with his fingers.  

“Your name is Liam, right?” Eleanor breaks the silence with drumming fingers and a shallow cough. “Of course it’s Liam. I know that. I’ve seen you at a million dinner parties. Think I might have gotten you for Secret Santa once. I lived next door to Veronica and her family for five years—”

 Calmer now, Liam chews on his lip, thinking. “You’re married to Louis, aren’t you?”

Harry snorts into his fist.

Eleanor’s sigh is almost as long as the curl of her ponytail. “My god, no. I got a divorce and moved down the street. Fortunately I’m not here to talk about my mistakes, Mr. Payne.”

“Then what are you here for?”

There’s a ringing clash behind Liam. He’s smart enough not to pray that it isn’t Zayn waking up from a nap he never stops taking. Liam softens when he sees Zayn strolling into the room with rumpled hair and grass stains on the knees of his pajamas. He’s scratching his head, trying to figure out how the aluminum vase traveled from the stand to the floor.

Liam almost laughs but thinks better of it.

Instead, he holds his hand out when Zayn is close enough to grab, steadying him until he can straddle the chair closest to Liam. Once he’s settled, Zayn pushes his hand away, and Liam is resigned to touching the cartoon turtles on Zayn’s pajama bottoms. “Nice pants you’ve got on.”

“Nice face,” he grumbles with swiping hands at Liam’s wiggling fingers. “What did I tell you about letting strangers into the house? Make them hand over their shit and kick them out.”

“I would say he’s usually got more manners than this,” Liam starts.

Zayn’s toes are cold when they shove between Liam’s foot and the rug. “But he would be lying. What do you want?”

The warmth in the ends of Zayn’s fingertips surprises Liam, makes him crane his neck and gives his brain a lash of confusion. Zayn slots their hands together and squeezes twice before he looks up at the light behind the curtains and remembers that he only needs comfort when no one can see.

Liam isn’t sad when Zayn retracts his hand and holds it limply in his lap.

He’s not.

“I can see why Mr. and Mrs. Samuels chose you,” Eleanor says once she’s got Liam’s attention. She looks like the type of woman who knows things that no one tells her. Liam’s cheeks go pink for absolutely no reason, and he hates that she smiles at him. “I have to say that none of us thought you would get it together this soon.”

“Chose us to do what?” Zayn’s accent comes out thicker when he’s tired or drunk or both. There’s a cry upstairs but it’s silenced instantly and Zayn tugs Liam back into his chair. “You know you can’t do anything for Nay. Mimi’s got it.” Zayn directs his focus on the tap of Eleanor’s pen. “Now you, what are we supposed to get together?”

“Andy and Veronica have made arrangements for this type of situation,” Harry speaks in place of his female counterpart. “This house was an investment, meaning it’s paid off. The car you mentioned earlier? Paid off as well.”

“So they did make arrangements?” Liam nods to himself, relieved. “That’s good. What about the children? I know Andy’s parents love them but they’re all the way in Manchester.”

“That’s why _I’m_ here.” Eleanor flashes a badge that Liam’s too lazy to read. “I’m a case worker from Child Protective Services. I’m here to make sure the children transition smoothly into their new lives with their guardians.”

Not incredibly fond of the footing around she’s doing, Liam keeps her suddenly fidgety gaze. “And who might that be? Their guardians.”

“You two.”

“I’m sorry,” Liam’s throat has closed in a fit of coughing. He beats his chest with a closed fist, leaving Zayn to squawk beside him. “I don’t believe I heard you correctly.”

“They picked _us?_ _Together?_ ”

Both parties nod. Harry’s the one that speaks this time. A little slower, a little softer. “This is correct. Andy and Veronica Samuels have named you—Liam Payne and Zayn Malik—as temporary guardians of their three children. Assets will be divided when all children become of age. Any current property belongs to you as of now.”

“I can’t raise three kids,” is the only thing Zayn says. “I’m not cut out to be a parent. I can’t _afford_ it.”

“It’s not going to be easy, Mr. Malik. We’re here to help you, okay?” Eleanor doesn’t make it any better.

“All I need you to do is sign right here. The case of the children is a longer matter that will take a course of eighteen to twenty-four months to complete.” Harry doesn’t do well under the scrutiny of both men opposite him. The loses the mask of seriousness that doesn’t really fit well with his floppy hair and loose sweatshirt, mouth fitting itself into a sympathetic line. “It was their last request, okay? Tried to talk them out of it—”

“We both did.”

There’s nothing they can say to help Liam settle the bouncing of Zayn’s leg. Or the wet tracks winding down the slope of his cheeks. Liam keeps his shoulders in line.

Nodding, Liam does a lot of nodding.

The crack of wood on wood sounds when Zayn’s chair falls to the ground. Liam doesn’t bother calling after him, though Eleanor makes a solid effort before coming back to grab her car keys. Liam hears the rev of Zayn’s motorcycle and knows that none of this will end pleasingly. But he hears another cry, another peal of sorrow from up the stairs and thinks of the babies.

That’s what they are, _babies._

And they’re all alone and Liam doesn’t want them to lose any more people in their lives.

He could do this for Andy. One last favor.

“Do you have a pen?”

_***_

_Still Monday – on an annoying, creaky step that Andy never fixed_

_***_

“I saw Uncle Zayn leave earlier.”

Liam’s stays at the table until Harry leaves with downturned lips and signed papers. The sun doesn’t shine today, and Liam can’t set his thumb on a specific time when his facial makeup didn’t consist of stubble, skin, and tears.

Instead of letting his knees sink him to the ground, Liam crouches at the bottom of the stairs.

“He needed some fresh air.” Liam makes space for her on the step, wrapping her in a one-armed hug until she leans into him. “He’s been in the house too long.”

He’s got a kiss for her, Liam places it on the top of her head and they stare beyond the glass of the screen door together. “We’ve all been in the house too long.”

The age in her voice slaps him in the gut. “Is there somewhere you’d like to go, little one?”

Naomi’s shoulders twitch with indifference, and it’s not like her to be this quiet. Liam supposes she’s entitled to a slight change in personality given the things going on around her. Her long, skinny legs are folded neatly to her chest and Liam can see his best friend in the tone of her skin and the tap of her toes.

“I’d like to go somewhere I could see my mom and dad again. ‘s not really possible, but you asked.” She’s somber and serious; her little palm traces patterns in the air. “For now I guess the house isn’t so bad.”

No words come to mind to soothe her. It’s one of very few recollections Liam has of speechless. Naomi speaks for him instead, pats his thigh like he’s the one who needs comforting and gives him a smile that doesn’t travel past the corners of her lips.

“Uncle Zayn will be back.” Her brow wrinkles. “I don’t know if things will be okay, but I know he’ll be back. He wouldn’t leave me behind. I’m his favorite, you know?”

Liam smacks a kiss to her forehead in an overwhelming wave of emotion that laps at his heart. She’s so goddamn bright and positive; an accumulation of good parenting. They raised her to be steady on her feet and kind beyond her years. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“If you _really_ thought that then I would be _your_ favorite.”

She’s already making her way up the stairs and Liam knows it will come eventually. The registration of acceptance that her parents aren’t in some far away place has yet to come.

He should be shaking her, asking her why she’s not falling apart. Why she’s not curled in a ball of tendons and tears. Liam crosses his legs instead, watching Naomi trot carefully up the stairs with her fingers bumping each picture of her family along the way.

The day will come where she has no choice but to slouch in defeat from the weight pillowed on her shoulders.

“Bring Naya down if you want to, baby. You don’t have to keep her up there with you if you don’t feel like it. I can watch her.”

“She only stops crying if I hold her,” Naomi explains, stopped in front of a smiling picture of Veronica and Noah. Noah is two and Naomi isn’t a thought in anyone’s mind yet. It’s sunny outside. It’s blurry because Liam was behind the camera. He waits for that to be what breaks Mimi but it isn’t. “I think it’s ‘cause I kind of look like Mom. It’s easier if I’m with her, that’s all.”

There are no other words exchanged as she disappears behind the banister of the steps.

If she’s not going to cry, Liam certainly is.

_***_

_Still fucking Monday_

_***_

There are slippers by the door that Zayn slides on his feet. The soles are hard, and that doesn’t make riding his bike impossible. Rain and slush covers every inch of road from his sister’s house to the bar at across town.

He rides a little faster, a little more reckless, doesn’t look both ways before he revs past blinking red lights.

Zayn wants to know what will happen if he lets his hands slip from the handle bars.

He only slows down when grey gravel wedges between the imprint of his tires. Zayn switches over the kickstand with the ends of his toes and hugs his arms to his chest.

No one asks him any questions because the population of their town is approximately: not a fucking lot, and they all know why he’s trying to get stuck at the bottom of a bottle. He doesn’t cast his eyes upward, just answers _yes_ when the bartender asks him if he’d like a drink. Zayn pretends he doesn’t hear the sympathy and remorse in dulcet tones from her throat.

The glass in his hand never stops being full, so he never stops drinking.

His head refuses not to pulse, fingers drumming silently while he counts bottles of liquor on the wall to keep from going insane.

“Considering the size of the suburbs you’re still a surprisingly hard man to find, Mr. Malik.” Zayn doesn’t move his head, simply winds his gaze to the side and finds the lady from the house hopping onto a stool adjacent to him. She relaxes, folds her legs, and has a look around. “You barely had a two minute head start on me, but vintage cars are impossible to figure out. I lost you somewhere around Main Street but I had a couple clues where you might be.”

“What gave me away, I wonder.” Zayn decides he’s going to pretend she’s not there.

“There are only two places you go after being told you’re responsible for three children. The bar and the airport.” She’s got a drink in her hand now, shooting in back with smooth grace and only the slightest of winces. The bottom of the shot glass makes a clap on the countertop. “We don’t have an airport, so. This was the only place I haven’t looked.”

He counts his first three fingers and the three jars of limes on the bar. There are three other people a few seats away from him, and three toothpicks to the left of his unsteady hands.

Three fucking kids.

“How many other bars did you stop by?”

“Six, I think.”

Chuffed, Zayn’s close to spitting his drink. “There are only seven bars in town.”

Her smile is tight and there’s a stand of hair loose at her temple. “That’s why I said this was the last place I looked. I’m Eleanor, by the way. Calder.” She holds her hand out until he shakes it, but he makes her wait a while, tries to size her up until he’s intimidated by the confident curve of her spine and the tap of her pointed heels. “I wasn’t sure you caught my name when you were wandering about the house in a drunken stupor. It’s nice to officially meet you, Zayn.”

“Wasn’t drunk,” he mumbles. “Just sad and confused.”

He’s taken aback by his own admittance but Zayn is the master of playing it cool. He relaxes his face and begs with wide, pleading eyes for a refill.

Whiskey was Veronica’s favorite.

The next drink chafes the back of his throat but Zayn doesn’t care enough to cough.

She makes herself fairly scarce, Eleanor. Zayn was thinking he’d been followed here for a lecture, maybe a slew of words that would attempt to crack the block of ice above his ribs. It sends a rumble in his stomach, the thought of people thinking he doesn’t care.

He does.

He really does.

Zayn remembers family members reaching out to them once they were found, him and his beautiful dead sister. His aunt hugged them and clothed them, then threw them back into the watery, cold streets for staining a run lining the hallway.

Thankfully the system was coherent enough to keep them both out of the hands of their parent’s doped-up friends. However, they still left them with their grandmother who left bruises that never went away on the blade of his sister’s shoulder. And there was that cousin in London who made them sleep in a cupboard when his friends came over.

But Zayn had seen his friends. Heard the things they did on the other side of the wooden doors, and peeked through the slotted air supply once or twice. He was fine, actually, not having to meet any of Cousin Leo’s pals.

Zayn would never hurt his nieces and nephew. Couldn’t imagine a single scenario where he doesn’t love them more with each beat of his heart but—but love is not enough to raise children.

It takes patience that Zayn doesn’t have. Time that he also doesn’t have. Money that he— _you guessed it_ —does not have. All the love in the world will not put dinner in a child’s stomach.

There’s just no way he can do it.

Zayn takes another drink and steadies himself with both hands flat on the bar. His eyelids flutter until the dizziness goes away. “Lemme have another, Anna.”

“Her name is Cindy. And you sir, are done.” Making a key reappearance, Eleanor swipes his drink and waves Cindy away with a flick of her too-skinny wrists. “He’ll have two glasses of water please. Coffee if you have it.”

“Don’t want coffee,” and it’s like he’s standing outside of his body watching himself slur and sway. Far in the back of his mind, Zayn admits to being pathetic. “Want another drink.”

“You want another drink?” She asks him, Zayn can feel her judging him but he doesn’t care. “What else do you want, Zayn? Tell me, I’m curious. You want another drink and what else? What else does your heart desire, hm?”

“Want you to go away,” he laughs to himself. Zayn feels obligated to take a sip of water when it’s set in front of him. He’ll never remember if Cindy has blonde or redheaded but he doesn’t think he’ll care after today. Zayn coughs around bruised knuckles. “Want this water to be, like, wine or summat. Want it to not taste like shit.”

She nods her head like she’s placating a child. Zayn counts thirty-nine ticks on the clock before Eleanor’s voice pierces his ears again. “And what else, hun? What else do you want?”

“Want a million dollars, I guess. Want world peace and a million dollars.” Zayn’s not articulating himself well, he knows this. His accent is getting in the way, and so is the alcohol clouding his brain. But Eleanor’s still listening, so Zayn is still talking. “I’d like someone to settle down with, too. Want Liam to not be as annoying as he is.”

She sighs at him for some reason. “I’ll touch on that some time later, but go on. Booze, bucks, and babies. And Liam. And world peace. What else?”

“Never said babies,” he corrects.

“What else do you want,” Eleanor asks harshly and Zayn considers hiding in a corner somewhere until she’s not so _angry._ “Rapid rounds, let’s go. What would make you happy, Zayn? What do you want?”

“I told you,” he can’t help if he’s a tad bit defensive because she’s getting mean and Zayn doesn’t like it. “Million dollars and world peace.”

“No one really wants world peace.”

“ _I_ want world peace,” he argues.

Eleanor levels him with a serious look, hard eyebrows and a ticking jaw. “What else do you want?”

“A new bike.”

“And?”

“A better homeless shelter for the town.”

She coos and Zayn is sure he’s supposed to be offended. Eleanor slides another glass of water to his left. He doesn’t remember finishing the other, honestly. “How sweet, keep going.”

“You’re bossy,” he notes. Telling her in case she didn’t know; which he doubts. “I don’t like it. But I want all of those things, anyhow. Want Noah’s arm to heal, too. No way can he play ball with a fucked up hand.”

She’s shooting up in her seat, satisfied. Oddly, Zayn wants to initiate that reaction again. He tries to think about what he said until he’s got it. “Want Naomi to go to art school. She’s amazing, you know? Taught her everything she knows.”

“How considerate of you.”

Zayn nods. “It was. I’m very talented.”

“I’m very proud,” she dismisses him. “Go on, keep going. What about Naya? What do you want for her?”

Zayn sees his little, baby niece in his head. There’s an image of her laughing and tugging on the ends of Zayn’s hair but… But fighting that, clawing it’s way through to the front of Zayn’s mind is her pinched and heartbroken face as Naomi rocks her in her arms.

She sheds her own silent tears, but it’s not normal. When Zayn looks at her all he sees is Veronica. When he looks at Noah, sad and silent, doused in misplaced guilt and constant horror, all he sees is Veronica.

Veronica, Veronica.

It’s the first time Zayn’s let her name filter through the muddy thoughts behind his forehead.

_My sister, Veronica._

“I want my sister back,” he blurts, covering his mouth with a shaking hand. “I want my sister to be alive—‘s all I want. It’s all I want in the whole world.”

“And you don’t think there’s a house full of kids who want their mom back?”

Zayn deflates, and there are tears stubbornly slithering down his cheeks. “It’s not the—”

“No, it’s not the same. I know that. I know that you grew up with her, and that she was your sister—fucking twins, I get that. After losing your own parents? That’s rough.” She’s saying she understands but Zayn doesn’t think she does. Eleanor doesn’t see how hard this is for him, she does not. “That should also make you understand what they’re going through.”

“My parents were shit,” he points out.

“They just lost _the only people_ who have proved to love them unconditionally. Naya will have to look at photographs for the rest of her life to know what her mother’s eyes looked like. Noah’s father will never sit in on one of his basketball games, and Naomi can go to whatever art school she chooses but her parents will never be there to send her off.”

Zayn is scared and crying, and it’s too much. The world is spinning too fast and he doesn’t know where to land once he’s jumped off. “I don’t want to—I don’t want to fuck them up. They deserve better than me.”

Eleanor stands then, shaking her head with her own set of tears staining the palette of her make-up.

“You want to sit in a bar and drink for the rest of your life? That’s _fine._ You want me to feel sorry for you? I will, but not for this. Not for abandoning them. I’m not here to care about you; I’m here solely to care about the wellbeing of three kids who— _newsflash,_ Zayn—are already fucked up. Noah was in the car when his parents died, did you know that? He sat strapped in his seat _upside down_ , yelling until someone pulled him out. No told him his parents were dead in the ambulance ahead of him.”

Zayn’s mouth opens in horror. “He never said—they didn’t tell us that. No one— _no one told us._ ”

“They deserve for you to try, Zayn. They deserve a chance at the most normal life you can give them.” She slaps money on the bar and tidies the end of her skirt. “Call a cab, you fucking reek. And get your act together. Mourn after you help your nieces and nephews bury their mother.”

“I didn’t know.”

But she’s already shrugging on her jacket and smoothing out that loose hair on the side of her head. “Liam has my number. I’ll be in touch.”

Zayn drinks another glass of water.

_***_

_A Monday that never ends – too early to have a reasonable excuse to be drunk_

_***_

The amount of people who drink before dinner time isn’t overwhelming, not in this part of town. Zayn isn’t sober enough to drive his bike, and he doesn’t have enough cash in his wallet to call for a tow.

Brown hat and a black pair of driving gloves, the cab driver doesn’t mind waiting for Zayn to come to a decision. Eventually he stuffs his keys into the pocket of his pajama bottoms and climbs into the backseat.

“I’ll give you everything in my wallet if you get me to Grapevine Hills in ten minutes.” Zayn says, feeling for a rubber band around his wrist. He ties his hair at the top of his head. “I’ve got to get to the house before my partn—my friend?” Neither one of those sound right on the end of his tongue. “I can’t let my nieces eat spinach casserole for the second night in a row. Ten minutes and I swear. Everything in my wallet.”

“That depends on how much is actually in your wallet, lad.”

Zayn frowns and holds out thirty pounds. “I had kind of a large bar tap. And that was with the Dead-Friends-And-Family Discount.”

There’s a built up sigh that erupts from flaring nostrils accompanied by a sad stare. He doesn’t drive as fast as Zayn would like, but he’s not trying to run up the meter with side streets and a feather foot on the pedal.

His teeth feel slimy, and luckily for his self-dignity the orange dusting of skylight is just dim enough for Zayn to slink into the shadows of the backseat. It’s not late enough for him to see if there are two more stars in the sky, but the promise of night whispers to Zayn in a battlefield of purple and pinkish clouds.

Zayn almost reaches his hands to the back of the driver’s head rest, he has a special request of destination. In the end he settles on his route and presses his lips together. It’s too soon to venture towards the studio, even if his finger is itching to pull the trigger on a shot of the bruised pavement reflecting manicured yards.

He’s only counted three tears when the cab stops in front of a house he used to be happy to see. Futilely, Zayn wipes at his face with tender knuckles. “Thanks, man.”

There’s a few more dollars hidden underneath his ID and Zayn holds it out with deserved gratitude. Zayn’s surprised when the man takes off his cap and runs a weary hand through his silver hair. “You keep it. Maybe buy those kids of yours a decent meal.”

“They’re not my kids,” Zayn says faintly enough to go unheard.

“I’ve had spinach casserole. Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, so go.” The driver shoos him out of the car, not happy until Zayn’s got all his money in hand and his soles on the pavement. “Go on now, before you’re too late. I’ve got other places to be, so run along.”

Zayn’s barely closed the door before he’s squinting at the glare of red taillights. He shoves his money back in his wallet and wonders how he’d managed to leave the house with a wad of cash but no shoes that cover the backs of his feet.

Tiny pieces of broken leaves stick to the fuzzy lining the top of Zayn’s slippers. He wiggles his toes in the extra space and thinks that these might actually be Liam’s. Or Andy’s.

He swallows and opens the front door, exhausted and trying not to think about how he feels like the leaves on the bottom of the shoes he’s wearing: lifeless and lackluster.

The kitchen is directly to the left of the foyer room, the main living room to the right. Liam’s in the middle of it all, legs underfoot and arms crossed over bent knees. “Didn’t think you were coming back. Naomi obviously has more faith than me.”

In a flash he thinks of Naomi, smiling and surely not as put together as she’s making it seem. “We have a bond, me and her.” He can feel the crease in the corner of his eyebrow. “I hope one day she’s as okay as she’s pretending to be.”

“Me too,” Liam sighs, still not moving. “I guess you can call and find out. I’m sure she’d appreciate you coming to check on her from time to time. I’ll have my hands pretty full when you leave, but I’ll try to bring them ‘round yours as often as I can.”

Zayn rolls his eyes at Liam’s list of woes. “You’d be excellent at theatre, you know that? Awful dramatic for someone who claims to have talents in the kitchen.”

“My talents aren’t limited to the kitchen,” is his flat reply, almost out of a compulsion to the banter that runs statically between them.

Only the spark left sometime in the last 48 hours, and it doesn’t seem scheduled for a swift return.

Zayn thinks about saying something back but nothing sounds right in his head.

He’s stood there long enough, shuffling his feet and pinching the skin of his hands. It’s hard not to feel out of place here, in a house with pictures of smiling people filled with no one who feels like smiling. Before Zayn can get swallowed by the passing haunts there on the area rug, he settles between Liam and the wall.

There’s a blanket of silence that scares Zayn into thinking he fucked everything up by storming out earlier. Liam’s so obviously terrified. Zayn remembers the same deep dents in his forehead the day Naomi got her tonsils removed. It’s the same looks he got every time Andy did something inherently stupid that landed him high and sedated on a bed in the Emergency Room.

Zayn tries not to be obvious, watching him. There’s a minor tremble in Liam’s lips, which he eventually blinks away. Zayn lays his hand open right there between them, pressing his knee against the heat of Liam’s, and hoping he doesn’t notice right away.

He doesn’t and Zayn is almost sad when Liam opens his mouth to talk about something other than the inaudible apology he’s trying to filter into the air.

“When I was fifteen I told my parents I was gay. Would you believe they didn’t let me go to Andy’s house for a week?” His laugh is solitary and solemn; Zayn replicate it with a hollow throat. He keeps his eyes on Liam, and Liam keeps his eyes on something that Zayn doesn’t see. “As if I could ever be romantically interested in Andy Samuels, you know? My dad thought it was ludicrous, but my mum was sure that Andy had… I don’t know— _turned me._ ”

“I’ve seen pictures of Andy when he was fifteen. If anything, he’d make me want to date women exclusively.”

Liam coughs into his dry palm. “Right? I couldn’t believe it. We had practiced for weeks in my bedroom—”

“First you say you never did it and now you say you practiced?”

“Not like that,” Liam explains, even though Zayn already knows, that isn’t what he meant but also knows top row of Liam’s teeth is nearly visible when he grins and knocks his body into Zayn’s shoulder. “Coming out. Andy helped me for weeks until he was sure I wouldn’t cry in front of my dad.”

Zayn gulps down a lengthy list of questions before they fall out of his mouth, finally spitting out one that doesn’t make him cringe. “That why you never talk to your folks? They didn’t take it well when you told them you were gay.”

That had been the easy part of being left without parents, probably the only benefit. Zayn couldn’t see his dad taking the news well, but he supposes his mom wouldn’t have cared. Both of them would have been too busy searching under tables and knocking down doors for a fix, to take them away from two dirty kids and a dirtier apartment.

Zayn strains his jaw and counts each molar in his mouth with the end of his tongue, wondering how many of them he would have left if his dad was around to see him kissing men on the back of their necks.

Two, he thinks. He would probably lose two teeth before Father got bored and moved on.

He jerks himself from underneath a veil of _what-ifs_ to find Liam saddling him with a worried glance. Zayn tells him to answer the damn question while silently trying to determine when he and Liam started to worry about one another.

“I moved in with Andy as soon as I figured out they didn’t care enough to stop me from leaving. We never talked about it again; that or anything else. They live in town, so I see ‘em all the time. They sent a pot of mash over when they heard—when they heard the news, I guess. Sometimes they stop by the bakery but it’s never to say anything more than hello.”

It’d be courteous to allow Liam a moment for his eyes to stop misting, but Zayn can’t look away. There are three little people moving around upstairs and they’ll need feeding soon. Zayn knows they’re as tentative to come down as Liam and Zayn are to go up.

They stay seated, casually glancing at each other and Zayn’s palm still lays open between them.

Liam’s pinky finger traces lines against the imprint of Zayn’s thumb. He does it absentmindedly without looking as Zayn busies himself with humming and rests his weight against the step behind him. “That’s pretty fucked up.”

“That’s life I guess.” Liam’s got hair falling in front of his face. Zayn knows he hasn’t smoothed it back or tried to coif it in two days time. Internally, Zayn’s not ashamed to say he likes Liam’s fringe when it’s long enough to curl at the ends. “We both got shitty jobs until we finished school. I went to culinary school. Soon as I know it, I’m coming back for winter break and Andy’s crying about getting some girl pregnant.”

Zayn’s snicker is dry but amused. “That would be my sister.”

They take time to delve into their own memories. Zayn can see Veronica, scared and huddled in the back of some van with a pregnancy test in her small hands. She’s young and frail, as fiery as she was the day she packed her bags for something bigger and more exciting.

Diapers and daycare. Marriage and mortgages.

Accidents and ambulances.

Zayn clears his throat, tries to stop thinking about her crushed body and broken bones. Instead hears her voice in his ear all those years back. “I remember getting a phone call in the middle of the day. Stoned as hell, screening calls from my sister because I didn’t need to hear about how good she was doing without me.”

The memory catches Zayn off guard, and he almost _—almost—_ doesn’t notice Liam taking the opportunity to slide all five of his fingers in the open places between Zayn’s. Hastily, they make fists with their hands, thumbs finding a way to linger after they pull apart in the elapsed time of a moment.

Zayn’s hand feels void.

“Sorry about that. Sometimes I forget that you don’t— _we_ don’t. Sorry.” Liam’s mouth barely moves around whispered words.

There’s an outrageous curve to Liam’s bottom lip that pulls his attention from the ache in Zayn’s chest.

Liam stumbles over his words some more, and Zayn doesn’t find it endearing in the slightest. Absolutely not. “You were talking about being a lonely, irresponsible teenager. Continue, please.”

Liam takes too long to turn his eyes away and Zayn wonders if he’s missed something important.

“I don’t,” Zayn tries. Shaking his head seems to rattle his thoughts back into place. “I don’t remember what my point was, but I know she was scared. It took me twelve times to answer but I did.”

“I can’t imagine she was happy about having to ring you so many times,” Liam says, still being weird.

He refuses to lift his chin, but Zayn doesn’t push him. “You ever blocked a call from Veronica? I stuffed all I had into my backpack; at the time it was a baggy of weed and the very first camera I actually paid for. Had to sit on two busses but I got here with no money and a hole in my shoe. She still made me sleep on her front porch of her apartment that night.”

Zayn doesn’t mention the pillow and blanket she threw out the window because it doesn’t seem poignant to the story. Not when Liam is laughing next to him and Zayn’s got the image of an angry and pregnant— _but living_ —twin sister in his mind.

“She was something,” Liam says.

 _Was_ leaves phlegm at the back of Zayn’s throat. “Andy showed up the next morning and took me out for coffee. You ever seen him make a cup of coffee? Ridiculous.”

“Fuck.” A wet and sad laugh bubbles from Liam’s mouth. “ _Yeah._ Yeah, Andy was weird about his coffee.”

All the things in between remain unspoken; Andy’s spastic decisions and all the nights Veronica spent alone with a crying newborn. Liam taking Andy back with him to culinary school, and Zayn busting the headlights of that stupid ass hippie van that’s still parked in the garage.

Because none of it matters anymore.

“She was perfect for him.” Liam’s tone has changed. Zayn doesn’t remember caring this much about someone he’s lost before. “Andy needed something to keep his feet on the ground.”

Their hands tremble on their own, separated in their respective laps.

“He was perfect for her, too,” Zayn counters, like it’s some sort of miserable competition. “He gave her everything I never could. Everything we never had growing up. People that love us and a cool fucking house.”

The night is nearer; Zayn can see it in the shadows of the sky and the glow of the streetlamps beyond the glass door. Liam isn’t comfortable in his skin beside Zayn, moving this way and that and wiping saltwater from his face until he’s leaning on Zayn.

Zayn doesn’t mind, likes the weight on his shoulder and the hair tickling the end of his nose. His tailbone throbs and if he closes his eyes and concentrates hard enough, it’s nearly as discomforting as the rattle in his lungs when he breathes.

“Does it every stop hurting this much?”

He subtlety spits out a piece of Liam’s hair, struggling to talk without weeping into his moppy fringe. “I’ll let you know when I find out.”

Zayn discovers that it’s simpler to keep their hands still when they’re bound together.

_***_

Zayn doesn’t say it out loud: that he’s staying or that he’s sorry.

Liam hopes he doesn’t regret assuming that both of those things are true.

_***_

_Monday is almost Tuesday, but not really – too late for lunch, too early for dinner_

_***_

“Are we having spinach casserole for supper again?”

“Are you hungry, Mimi? I’ll warm up the oven for leftovers.”

“Dinner’s on me, round up the crew. I have some cash in my wallet.”

“I hope you plan on changing first, uncle Zayn. You just look silly in those frog pajamas.”

“They’re Ninja _Turtles._ ”

“Whatever.”

“How do you _not know_ Ninja Turtles?”

_***_

_Wednesday – there’s never a right time to bury someone you love_

_***_

No one told Naomi to put on a black dress or sweep her hair to the side. She wasn’t instructed to tie the ribbon on the front of Naya’s aubergine baby gown, but she did so and Zayn was grateful he didn’t have to make the trek up the stairs to ready them for their parent’s funeral.

He had a hard enough time knotting his tie at his throat with shaky fingers. Liam, sorting his wardrobe out in the second living room, had a hell of a time as well, but Zayn said nothing as he walked past to wash his face in the downstairs bathroom.

“Mom didn’t like the color blue,” are the first words Noah speaks to Zayn in days.

(Previously he’d warned Zayn to stay out of his room. He’d also gotten an earful when he tried to help him keep the skin around his cast sanitary. Another conversation took place about disgusting dishes brought over from consoling neighbors that they were tired of having for dinner.

Zayn imagines it will be worse after the wake, when people are in his sister’s—now legally his and Liam’s for the time being—home, whispering their apologies and handing over baked good that are supposed make burying your relatives a little easier.

Zayn personally doesn’t see he appeal.)

There’s blue trimming on the seats of their chairs, and more on the border of a large smiling picture of Zayn’s sister and her husband. It appears again, dark and looming in the small bouquets of flowers poised at the end of each row of seats.

“Your dad loved blue, kiddo.”

Zayn knows because he brought this up to Liam earlier while he was chatting up the coordinator with his thanks. Zayn was scolded and sent away.

Noah looks stricken and guilty for not knowing this, and the crease in his brow kind of breaks Zayn’s heart. Zayn can see the pulse at the side of his forehead, a brutal mental beating that shows in the throb of his temple.

“Don’t worry too much about it,” Zayn exhales, sighing because the weight on their chests doesn’t seem to be getting any easier. He takes a chance and lands a steady, hopefully calming, arm around Noah. “I didn’t know V’s favorite flowers were daisies until Liam explained why there were ugly little flowers all around the program.”

“I knew mom’s favorite flowers were daisies,” Noah whispers under his breath, and Zayn can’t figure out why his voice sounds so punishing. He tries to wiggle out of Zayn’s grasp, and Zayn seriously considers making him stay put until the proceedings start, but he turns him loose. “I’ve got to—I have to go.”

“It starts in fifteen minutes, Noah.” As hard as Zayn’s trying to pretend he’s not putting his sister in the ground, it’s sneaking up on him and Zayn has to stick two fingers between his neck and the noose looped around it. “Noah, where are you going? Fuck, _Noah._ ”

Zayn settles into a slow jog to catch up to him. He passes people he doesn’t know walking towards the proceedings, and people he can’t look in the eye. Andy’s parents look at him strangely and a huddle of neighbors creep him the fuck out.

“I just need to be somewhere.”

“But where?”

“Anywhere else but here.” Noah calls over his shoulder, and Zayn thinks about chasing him down, but what would he do when he caught him? “Don’t tell Liam, alright? I can’t be here—I thought I could; I can’t.”

It’s the most he’s spoken since they rolled him out of the hospital, and Zayn doubles over to touch his hand to his chest. He’s not sure if the chase or the heartbreak winds him, but he’s out of breath and tearing up regardless, watching Noah run between headstones and shrubbery until he disappears into a clutter of trees.

It’s a very short walk back, and Liam isn’t asking him questions when he collapses in the front row of the last funeral he wants to be attending. The sky mourns Veronica and Andy with them; Zayn can feel the salt in the drizzle of sorrow that falls on his head.

“Can I hold your hand?” Zayn turns his head to see this tiny replica of the two people they’re losing standing next to him, a pillar of strength with shaky lips and sweaty hands. “Won’t squeeze too hard, promise.”

There’s an empty spot where her brother belongs, and Zayn wants to be angry at him for bailing on his sister when Zayn would do anything to have his back. “Sure you can, Mimi.”

She lies, but he doesn’t mind. When he holds his hand out to her she sinks her bones into his flesh and he would yelp in pain if he didn’t already hurt so much everywhere else. Naomi’s almost up to his shoulders, and they lean on one another while Liam rocks a sleeping baby in his arms.

Naomi cries but it’s soft.

Liam weeps into the wisps of Naya’s hair, and Zayn is positively sure that it’s a miracle the collective sniffles of everyone around them doesn’t wake her.

Andy’s parents are understandably inconsolable. His mother seems to have her wits about her, wiping tears into a napkin but his father loses it every time Andy’s name is spoken. 

Harry and Eleanor are there, not together but present. Eleanor cries into the shoulder of some short guy with a slicked fringe and button nose. Harry disappears somewhere and Zayn doesn’t care to crane his neck and find him.

Yoga instructors and paramedics. Drinking buddies and prayer circles. Family and not-so-friendly friends, they’re all there at Zayn’s back and it sends shudders through his body— _they were so loved,_ he cries—until he’s wrapping both of his arms around a trinket Veronica and Andy left behind.

“They loved you so much,” he blubbers into her hair when the speaker broaches the subject of the children they brought into the world. “You brought this family together, little one. You mom and your dad— _so much._ Loved you _so fucking much._ ”

“They loved you, too. Even daddy.” She pats his back, and she’s sniffling, still astoundingly held together. “It’s okay to cry, Uncle Zayn. We’re all gonna miss them.”

He looks at her and sees her mother: fierce and loyal, beautiful too. Zayn can see Andy in her tenacity and the bend of her nose; the coarseness of her eyebrows, but mostly in the joy at the corner of her eyes.

Zayn can spot the same things in Noah. And when she’s older, it’ll be in the structure of Naya’s tapered nose and temperament.

He sighs into Naomi’s thin hair before letting go. Her fingers sink back into the purple placeholders from before and Zayn winces as he flexes his hand.

Liam’s hand finds the back of Zayn’s neck to root them there as a unit.

Noah never comes back, but Zayn doesn’t think he’s very far. There’s a cry somewhere far away, one that sounds gruesome and gutteral. No one turns to look because their own pain echoes in their ears, but Zayn knows it’s him; on his own, against a tree, screaming questions at the birds.

Zayn remembers doing the same thing, feeling the same ache that he can’t cut out of his stomach, the same bile in his throat.

“May you rest in peace,” finishes the ceremony.

Naomi, Naya, and Liam make their way to the front to toss flowers on a pine box. Zayn leaves them to it and finds his way to the backseat of the car.

There’s nothing he can throw onto her casket that will bring her back to him.

Noah slides in next to him seconds later, with—Harry?—closing the door behind him, telling him that everything will be okay before he waves and goes on his way.

“What was that about?”

Zayn doesn’t say anything about missing the funeral; Noah doesn’t need a voucher to feel his own misery. He does want to know why strange men are escorting him back to the car, though.

Noah simply shrugs, and they collectively act like there aren’t splotches of grief on the lapels of his overcoat. “Harry is a cool guy. Taught me how to make a man-bun when I was ten. Makes the weirdest desert; sweet potatoes with marshmallows.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“It’s actually not that bad.”

Zayn makes a face. “Really?”

“No, it’s pretty awful.”

For a second, just a second, Zayn and Noah dissolve into giggles. For a second they’re connected by a strip of joy they won’t experience again for a long time.

For a second everything is okay.

But only for a second.

It doesn’t last.

_***_

_Two weeks later – Liam’s first time out of the house in days_

_***_

He regrets not getting a dog, quite a lot actually.

Liam won’t admit that he’s lonely for a fear of too many people benefitting from it, mainly Zayn. And Taylor and Maz down at the bakery.

Now he has a house full of children to come home to, and Zayn isn’t so bad when he’s not pestering Liam at brunch or waging war with Noah in the middle of the night. (Liam isn’t sure what’s going on between them, but he’s tried to get smooth things over between them. That only landed him on the outs with both of them, so Liam keeps his mouth shut and hopes they sort it out eventually.) A sleeping Naya makes the perfect running partner, and Mimi likes to cuddle when she’s damp-eyed and sleepy.

He would much rather have a slobbering mutt than any of this if it meant that Noah, Naomi, and Naya had their parents back, and Liam didn’t have to break the lease on his apartment.

Loosening his fingers on the handle of Naya’s active stroller, Liam smiles down at her sleeping frown. “You’re better than any dog, aren’t you? You sure are.”

She’s still quiet when he treks her through the grass to stand in the warm patch of grass he’s claimed for himself. The sun barely peeks through the clouds today, leaving Liam with a chill at the tops of his arms.

The last time he was here Andy was breathing somewhere across town, holding hands with Veronica and letting a stranger massage his back while enjoying misplaced cucumbers.

Time passes slowly, and Liam spends an hour talking into the air waiting for Andy to reply.

“I’m so mad at you,” he whispers at the sky. “Downright stupid, the both of you leaving all of us here. Stupid.”

“Noah is so messed up right now.” Liam slips his hands into the pockets of his trackies. “He’ll only talk to that Harry lad, and I think it’s driving Zayn a little crazy. Only comes out of his room for food. Won’t look Naomi in the eyes.”

Liam thinks that they know all of this, wherever they are. It still helps, telling them like in this manner. No one is around to witness the morning chill freeze the tears on his face. “Mimi is taking this so well and it makes me mad sometimes. Worries me mostly, but pisses me off. She’s not even half my age and she’s more put together than I am.”

Rutting his sneakers against the ground, Liam tenses his shoulders. “How do you explain to a three year old that her parents are dead? I don’t know what Zayn said to her, just know that she never stops asking for you and that—that shit never stops hurting.”

Liam lets them know he has no clue what he’s doing. He bends his knees and sinks in the dirt, pretending he’s tugging greasy, blonde hair and looking into kind, brown eyes. Noah is never going to play basketball again because he won’t go to physical therapy, and Naomi is going to lose it one day.

Naya’s speech development is in danger; all she says is _mama._

“I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m trying my best.”

He wipes his face pathetically, apologizing to the new passerbys that linger on the sidewalk with stricken stares.

Liam’s cheeks are warm when he touches them, and it takes him a while to realize that the sun had come out while he hung his head. It’s not much, but it’s something.

He jogs across town until his legs throb and he can’t take another step.

Zayn doesn’t appreciate being woken up before ten in the morning, but he drives the van to pick Liam up anyway. They buckle Naya in he car seat, and Liam smiles all the way to the house.

_***_

_Same week – the second living room, which Zayn still thinks is ridiculous_

_***_

“What do they even talk about?” Zayn leans over to scoop up a waddling toddler without breaking his view of the living room. It’s second nature now, to rock Naya on his hip and judge the long-haired lawyer in tandem. “We signed his papers; there is no reason for him to be hanging around the house with _our_ fifteen year old.”

“ _A_ fifteen year old,” Liam corrects, holding his hand over the end of his phone to halt his conversation with his guys at the bakery. “He’s not property, and Harry is good for him. Noah seems to like spending time with him.”

“But _why?_ ”

Noah laughs quietly into the cast at the end of his wrist, but it’s a secret giggle that Harry induces with a tip of his stupid brimmed hat and goofy, wide smile. “I’ve got to call you back, Tay. Zayn can you _please_ stop rocking the baby; she’s bound to throw up any second now if you keep tossing her about.”

“What can a fifteen year old possibly have in common with a shitty insurance attorney?”

Zayn doesn’t have to see Liam to sense his displeasure. There’s a frame to the left of Zayn’s head; large and pleasant behind thick flimsy glass. He’s got his nephew in his arms and a brother-in-law at his back, and he’s trying to navigate himself back to that happy space.

Or at least somewhere he and Noah can look at one another without yelling.

Noah won’t take care of his wrist, and Zayn refuses to turn over each photograph in the house. There’s a box of things that Zayn keeps fishing from the trash—trinkets and trophies and t-shirts that Andy made himself—insisting that Noah is behaving hastily. He finds it in the same spot each morning when he checks the mail until he stashes it at the studio for safekeeping.

They argue over dinner arrangements and doctor’s appointments.

Noah never fucking fights with Harry Styles.  

They’ve just gotten back from Physical Therapy and Harry says it went splendid.

Zayn can’t fathom being friends with a thirty year old who says _splendid._

Noah is in a clean pair of sweats, as well as a shirt that droops widely down the front of his neck. No one asks if it might be Andy’s, but they’re all thinking it. Liam’s thinking it; Zayn could see that in the pain between his eyes and the lump in his throat when Noah walked down the stairs to meet Harold outside with Eleanor.

The lot of them had left and returned two hours later.

Liam got a faint grin upon Noah’s arrival, but he ghosted past Zayn and into the back living room, palling along with Harry and setting up a board game with a gimpy wrist and a quiet enthusiasm.

Zayn smoked a cigarette while Eleanor told him horror stories of child care.

“He tells jokes sometimes,” Liam says.

If Noah looks behind him up he will be mortified, with Liam and Zayn watching on, rocking his baby sister and taking turns hip-checking one another until Liam almost shoves Zayn face first into the glass door on his right.

Composing himself, Zayn swipes imaginary dust from the brink of his collar. “His jokes _aren’t funny._ I listened to three of them before I stopped eavesdropping. I was starting to get lose functioning brain cells.”

Liam doesn’t have any more luck than Zayn did keeping Naya from edging her thumb back between her lips. “And you say I’m dramatic.”

“Because you are dramatic.”

Another laughs rips itself from Noah’s chest, and Zayn doesn’t know if the tug in his chest means he’s happy or miserable. The grogginess in his giggles tells Zayn that Noah hasn’t had a chuckle in a while. None of them has, really. They’re trying to take it one day at a time, but all of them still bury their heads under the covers at the end of the day.

Except Naomi.

Noah doesn’t give anyone a chance to talk to him, but Zayn can see where he’s coming from. What Eleanor told him haunts him when he closes his eyes at night. The severity of Noah’s shouts in middle of the night tells Zayn that it’s worse for him; as if it wasn’t obvious.

Liam takes being replaced well. Hangs back while Naomi eats banana crème pie with someone Andy and Veronica failed to mention. Allows Harry to sit in on family discussions—yeah, most of them are about finances and Harry is in charge of most of those things but whatever—and doesn’t blink an eye when he steals Naya every chance he can get.

Zayn and Liam stand in silence and listen to Noah talk openly, uncaring of who hears or what he’s saying. How loud he’s laughing or how good he’s feeling, Noah doesn’t care. He’s carefree and Zayn wants to resent that curly-headed fuck so bad but he just _can’t._

Not when he’s patting Noah on the back and letting him win _Sorry_ three times in a row.

Naya gets squirmy, tapping on Liam’s chest and trying her hardest to get her little foot to connect with Zayn’s arm. They let her loose on the ground and shuffle closer together when Harry winks at them over the top of Noah’s head.

Zayn wants to feel embarrassed but decides he doesn’t give a shit what Harry thinks.

“The knock-knock about the chickens is pretty funny if you ask me.”

Zayn snorts, but not too obtrusively for fear of drawing unwanted attention. “He’s made you subjective to American humor and it’s repulsive. There’s _no_ truth to that statement.”

“ _Truth._ I like when you say things with the _oo_ sound in them.” Liam pokes Zayn in the side of his cheek, reminding him that he has to trim his beard soon. “It makes your lips move funny.”

Pouting is not the word he would use to describe his reaction, because Zayn’s a grown man and he has better things to do than stick his lip out at some crinkly-eyed, giggling git. There’s a noise of the indignant kind, though, that squawks from his throat. “ _Your lips_ are funny.”

He’s an octave too high, and his voice travels a little farther than he would have liked.

Corralling his hands, trying to smooth his thumbs over the inside of Zayn’s palms before Zayn immediately bats them away, Liam mocks Zayn with a smirk. “Beautifully witty response, Malik.”

That’s eventually what marches Zayn away from the doorway and into the kitchen. He finds Naya wandering around creating a tune of words that don’t exist. Irritatingly enough, Liam follows him around for the next hour saying words that rhyme with _booth_ and for a moment Zayn forgets how much he misses his little sister and his temporary big brother.

Also, while Liam is wielding a bouncing toddler and a number of long _O_ words that stun Zayn into a fit of raucous laughter, he forgets how much he cannot stand Harold Styles; attorney at law.

“Say booty, just one time. One time and I’ll leave you alone.”

“I’m not saying bo— _go away,_ Liam.”

“You were so close!”

“I hate you so fucking much. I’m not saying booty. I— _god dammit._ ”

_***_

_Saturday – side door, kitchen_

_***_

It’s too early, and too sunny. Too bright and eerily quiet.

Sans for the pounding on the side of the house that’s closest to Zayn’s makeshift bedroom; that apparently no one else fucking hears.

The clock on the stove doesn’t read past ten, but Zayn knows that Liam has already gone to stand in the middle of the park and talk to God. That’s what the guitar player across the street said; that Liam jogs around the park until he stands in a clearing and whisper-shouts at the sky.

His name is Ed and sometimes he comes around looking for Harry—who is always in the fucking house, night or day—and Zayn’s pretty sure that he owns four cats and mows his grass naked.

That explains Liam’s absence, though, and the lack of crying from upstairs. Zayn doesn’t know why Noah couldn’t answer the door, or Naomi. He decides to punish them later with burnt bagels and maybe a frozen casserole.

Squinting, the sun is too obnoxious for Zayn to recognize a face on the other side of the pebbled glass before he swings the door open.

“I did not know this house had a door that leads directly to the kitchen.”

If he would have known it was Eleanor, he would have left it closed.

“What could you possibly want at ten in the morning?” Zayn moves aside for her to walk past him. He fell asleep in jeans, and there’s a fluffy robe around his shoulders that smells like his sister when he pats his face with the sleeve. “Do they not give you days off? Are the weekends not sacred to anyone?”

She surveys the place before smoothing her hand over her blazer and laying a clipboard on the kitchen island. Eleanor doesn’t pull any punches looking Zayn from top to bottom with a shake of her head. “Do you sleep in jeans?”

“Do you sleep in a suit?” He rises, pouring two glasses of sugar-free juice and taking a seat next to her tapping foot.

“Touché.” Eleanor raises her glass and holds it to her lips while Zayn tries to hold his head up for longer than fifteen seconds without closing his eyes. He sees her face distort. “This tastes like shit.”

“All healthy kid shit tastes like balls.” Zayn shrugs. “You get used to it.”

“Let’s hope so,” she says after she stares at him for too fucking long.

They do that every other day for a month. She wakes him up while Liam is out having pleasant conversations with himself in the park, drinking juice as Eleanor discreetly jots down notes on her stupid little clipboard. Zayn heats up something in the oven that doesn’t look like it will kill them all if they digest it.

He figures he must be passing her tests well enough, because the judge grants them full temporary custody and Eleanor only stops by in a business capacity twice a week. Otherwise she’s in soft sandals and scarves drinking a few of Zayn’s beers and making sure they don’t fuck up the kids while she’s off the clock.

Harry is still always there, but that is beside the point.

Zayn learns to drink sugar-free grape juice without wincing four weeks after his sister passes away.

_***_

_Monday afternoon – suburban grocery store_

_***_

Despite Liam and Zayn’s better judgment, Eleanor is calling for the children’s re-enrollment into school as soon as Zayn can get their contacts changed and all the paperwork in order. Liam isn’t above insisting that Harry tag along, but Zayn refuses help and fastens a bumbling Naya into her safety seat before winding out of the driveway.

Liam wonders how anyone can be called on to know when it’s appropriate to send someone back into wide hallways and tiny, noisy desks after their parents have been announced dead.

Four weeks doesn’t seem like an allotted amount of time to mourn, but Naomi is happy to see someone other than her uncles and Noah has agreed to go to three more PT sessions. Granted Liam had to bride him with cake, space, and a promise that Harry could come over for meals at least once a week.

Liam doesn’t bring up the fact that they can’t seem to get rid of Harry—Zayn has tried—and that Liam wouldn’t really object much, anyway. It’s nice to have someone around that doesn’t stare into space more often than not and wander around after midnight with booze breath and boyhood pajamas.

“What I don’t get,” Harry strolls beside Liam in a coat that dusts the ground when he bends over to pluck a can of corn from the shelf. His pants match the stripped headscarf around his forehead. “Is why you have yet to call this Doctor person back? Taylor says he’s came ‘round looking for you— _do not_ put that jam back on the shelf, Liam.”

He hasn’t had a reason to cook in two weeks and it’s leaving bruises at the ends of his fingernails. The last thing Liam needs is the refusal to eat scalloped potatoes for the alternative of toast with preserves.

His housemates have obtusely simple palettes.

“You’re not bringing a jar of fruit and sugar into the kitchen I cook in. And when did you talk to Taylor? How do you _know_ Taylor?”

“Taylor is friends with a number of our neighbors.” Harry holds the jam in his hands with a sour glare in Liam’s direction, ushering Noah along when he stops to survey the soda selection. “She also has a collection of insured winter coats; it’s fascinating actually. The firm agreed to let me do it all pro bono.”

Liam’s feet stop moving and Naomi collides into his back before moving away to look at snack selections with temporarily resentful eyebrows. “You get paid to insure people’s _coats?_ ”

“Pro bono means I do it for free,” Harry explains, pushing Liam along with strong wrists. An apple falls loose from the bag—or Harry digs it out, he can’t be sure—and he chomps into one. His boots clack on the tile and Liam shakes his head before following. “People pay me to insure their televisions and baseball cards, though. It’s more practical to know I’ll be reimbursed if someone should commit a crime against my wardrobe. Have you ever tried to find a woven mint coat for men, Liam?”

“No?”

“Then I don’t expect you to understand.”

Maneuvering around Noah to grab seasoning for chicken, Liam lifts one shoulder. “I guess that’s fair.”

“What’s not fair, is not answering my question about the hot doctor, but I will let it slide for now. Just this one, though.”

“How generous.”

Scandalized at his sarcasm, Harry holds a hand to his chin. “I’m a very giving person, Liam.”

Harry begins to hum underneath his breath, and Liam can’t pinpoint how or why their friendship took place; but he likes listening to Harry chew gum and change diapers. Liam grabs two loaves of bread and swears he hears Andy telling him _you’re welcome_.

He’s not crazy; Liam knows that Andy is gone and that Veronica is with him somewhere far enough away that Liam can’t see them when he cranes his neck towards the moon. Given enough liquor and tears, Zayn will point to a burning light in the sky when the sun has disappeared completely, and say that he sees Veronica’s blinking eyes in what Liam knows to be a space station floating a million miles above their heads.

Andy has given Liam worse gifts than a lanky, laughing lawyer.

Harry wraps his scarf around Noah’s face in an absurd manner that leaves him blind and giggling while Naomi challenges her newfound friend to a round of tile hopscotch. Harry wins, unsurprisingly and much to Mimi’s dismay.

Looking up at the grocery store ceiling is a bit much, even for Liam. Still he whispers his thanks, deciding that Harry is a much better present than the bath bomb Andy gave Liam last Christmas.

They both leave glitter on all of Liam’s things, but it’s the thought that counts.

_***_

_Monday night turns into Tuesday morning_

_***_

Liam is up all night biting his nails, until Zayn yanks his finger from his mouth and makes him scoot over so they can share warmth and dirty looks.

Zayn’s knees are bony but Liam doesn’t make him move. A tingle at the bottom of his spine tells him he should make Zayn to shove off to his side of the downstairs area, but Liam lets him stay until the sun is hurting their eyes, and neither of them has closed their eyes for longer than fifteen minutes.

Naya usually cries around three in the morning, but they’ve made it to seven o’clock and they haven’t heard a peep from upstairs.

“Do you think they ran away?” Zayn alternates between rubbing the skin of Liam’s knee over his cotton pants and pretending he doesn’t want Liam to breathe in his proximity. Right now he’s scalping the thread of his sweats and wiggling his toes underneath Liam’s thighs. “I would run away if I had to be stuck with you.”

“You are stuck with me,” Liam tells him, grumbling and trying to listen hard for anything out of the ordinary. Naomi is good at waking herself up, and she should be trotting down the stairs to get Naya a bottle, at least. “And you haven’t left yet, so shut up.”

It comes out sappier than he intends, but as usual it passes over Zayn’s head and Liam stands up with a wince.

“I think maybe we should go check on them.”

Zayn’s eyes are in danger of falling right out of his head. “I think maybe you’re insane.”

“We haven’t been upstairs in a while.” The thought of trekking those stairs into the family space has him in knots, but Liam made a commitment to take care of these children and he’s not going to let a flight of stairs stop him. “What if they need us? What if they did run away and we’re wasting time not looking for them?”

His pulse picks up but his feet don’t move.

“Calm down, hey.” Liam feels Zayn’s fingers on his chin and his palm on his cheek. “Liam they didn’t fucking run away, calm down.”

“We can’t send them back to school, Zayn.” Liam follows the line of Zayn’s shoulders, breathes in sync with the rise and fall of his collarbone and tries not to think of all the things that could go wrong. “They’re not ready. They’ll—how can they ever be ready?”

Liam has maybe an inch on Zayn, but he feels small in his hands. “None of us are ready but we’ve all got to try.”

There’s no sense in sagging against Zayn but he does it anyway. It comes and goes—the sorrow and pain and tears and hoarse unanswered questions—and Liam doesn’t know why he picked today to collapse under the weight on his back.

It’s the first time Zayn has ever been the one doing the consoling, pressing his fingers into wide circles at Liam’s back and dotting his eyebrows with kisses that make Liam’s head throb.

He’s gentle and kind, and he smells like beer when Liam stops drowning in self-pity long enough to breathe him in. Liam knows he will straighten his back in a moment, and Zayn will go on like he never rubbed the end of his nose at the side of Liam’s jaw.

Zayn sighs and it carries Liam to thoughts of staying like this forever. He thinks that Zayn might be able to make the murmur in his chest stop, but he’s not willing to bet on it. “Let’s go get ‘em, yeah? Wake all of them up and see if Noah and Mimi want to go to school. If they don’t, we’ll put it off another day.”

Sniffling, Liam backs away from Zayn’s hands, hoping his fingers will chase the skin of his cheeks when Liam does so.

They don’t.

“What if they don’t want to go to school tomorrow?”

“We’ll ask them again the next day.”

Quietly they climb the stairs. Liam weighs the pros and cons of linking his fingers with Zayn’s shaky ones when they’re greeted by the smell of sandalwood and hairspray. A pair of Veronica’s shoes lay at the top of the stairway and Liam isn’t sure that Zayn won’t topple over until they’re past them and Zayn is walking just fine.

It’s another world up here, seeing photos that have been knocked down and picked up again, crooked on the nail where they hang. The hallway smells like Andy just stepped out of the shower, and there are four doors on each side of the open layout when they sink their toes into the thicker carpet.

Liam isn’t completely neglectful. He’s dashed up and down the stairs to gather everyone’s laundry. When Noah was locked in his room, he had to collect the dirty dishes outside his door before they attracted bugs. He’s never taken his eyes away from the floor, though. Never stood in one place and breathed in his old friends.

He didn’t linger on the walls, where dozen of photographs took up any empty space. Some large, others small and clustered, they were everywhere and Liam doesn’t know how each day, Noah and Naomi stepped into the shrine of their parents that Andy and Veronica had unknowingly built.

Their rooms are empty but they hear a snore, and it’s too late to back away now and say forget it.

There’s only one more place to check, and it makes Liam ill to think about pushing open Andy’s bedroom door to get to his children. But they find them there anyway, wrapped in long limbs and identical faces; it makes Liam shed tears over the knuckles of his hand.

In the bed Veronica picked out, her kids are huddled in the middle.

Strong and brave and sleeping, there’s a pile of Samuels children that neither of them can stomach disturbing. Noah’s cast serves as a hard pillow for Naya’s head of thick, messy hair. Naomi’s got a paisley printed blanket that Liam recognizes from somewhere, and he has no doubt that if he were to take it right now, memories of Veronica would dance in his head.

“Let them sleep,” Zayn says.

They don’t go to school for three more days, and all of them—Liam and Zayn included—sleep in Andy and Veronica’s bed that night.

It’s a lot harder than he ever imagined, but it’s worth it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave me a comment? like all writers i thrive on feedback of any kind so let me know what you did or didn't like? (:


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a trash bag and the queen of unfinished fics, sorry. If it's any consolation, I just got a new fulltime job as an assistant manager and literally all I do is work and sleep, whch leaves very little time for writing. I'm not abandoning this fic, or I don't plan to bc it's very personal to me seeing as it deals with loss that's been really good in helping me cope with some shit in my life, but it might take me a while to update bc I'm always busy now. 
> 
> To make up for the wait, this chapter is ridiculously long, and it was finished a while ago, but it took foreverto edit. There are a millionparts that I scrapped and took out, and I may post them as an outtake fic later on. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, and I hope you don't hate me too much for making you wait forever. 
> 
> Tell me what you thought!! :)

_***_

_The Samuels’ house – the living room with the most uncomfortable couch ever_

_***_

Fifteen years old is an excellent age to sleep on a couch for a month. Maybe your parents love you too much and they’re drowning you in affection and academic tutoring – all for your wellbeing, all insufferable. Sleep on your best friend’s basement sofa until legal actions are threatened and you have to study alone in your room for finals.

Your body is pretty sturdy between fourteen and sixteen, and nothing aches when you wake up with a remote molded to your spine.

However, when you’re over thirty, coffee only soothes your pain if the night before was good enough to make it all worthwhile. Zayn has not had a night worth retelling in sixty-odd days, and the aesthetic appeal of the faded leather sofa did nothing for the knots in his shoulders.

Sleeping on the couch is no longer ideal once you can do your own taxes.

Turning his head left and then right, Zayn pops his neck and painfully sucks in stale, morning air until his ribs fit properly back in place. His body feels like it shifts slightly to the left every night, into a slump of organs that Zayn’s responsible for securing as the day wanes.

Zayn hates the cream leather mess that sticks to his skin while Liam is at the front of the house pillowed on contemporary cushions that are more family friendly. And less likely to give him scoliosis. 

“You know, we do have a guest room.”

Zayn scratches his stomach and blinks, letting his eyes filter the light before he peels his eyelids back completely. Noah’s leaning against the bottom of a loveseat with a video game controller in his hand, and Zayn – not for the first time – damns his sister for making her kids well-rounded enough to abandon their bedrooms before noon on a Saturday.

“I know you have one guest bedroom with a tiny bed, and two uncles who need a full night’s sleep.” He busies himself folding a thin blanket because he doesn’t want to hear about not cleaning up after himself when Liam gets back from his run. Wincing when his nephew blows up someone’s brains, Zayn tosses pillow at the back of his head. “Turn that down, you’re gonna wake up the whole house.”

Having non-admittedly similar temperaments, Noah and his uncle tend to disagree for the sake of disagreeing. Skating on thin ice around a volatile teenager only feeds them more power than Zayn is willing to give away. This ends in uncharacteristic screaming matches and an empty pack of cigarettes, but the hour and a half of peace afterwards is sometimes worth it.

“You’re the only one that’s still asleep,” Noah abruptly criticizes, not looking at Zayn when he uses his good hand to throw the pillow at Zayn’s hobbling form as he curses Naomi’s boxes of erasers. “Liam just got back with Naya, and Mimi is talking to Ed in the yard.”

“Naked Ed? Why would you leave your sister with Naked Ed, she’s like, seven years old.”

Zayn rushes to rescue his poor niece and scolds himself for making a lawn-mowing deal with a man nicknamed _Naked Ed_ in the first place. His shirt is sticking to his back, and he really should have appreciated being able to sleep in the nude when he was a bachelor.

He’s no better than Naked Ed; Zayn just wants to be free.

“I’m _twelve,_ and Mr. Sheeran was stopping by to reschedule your Saturday night drink.” Naomi interrupts Zayn’s irrational inner dialogue, miraculously draping herself over the back of his chiropractic nightmare in the time it takes him to realize that the widow he’s peeking out of leads to the wrong side of the house. “He wanted to pencil you in on a Tuesday, but I told him that’s laundry day. Ed understands.”

Naomi’s vocabulary isn’t exceptionally vast, but her eloquence always allows him to puff out his chest. She’s gets it all from him, he knows it; smarts and arts. “Thanks for that. Sorry you had to talk to Ed.”

“I like Ed, no worries.”

 “Can you keep it down? I’m trying to play a game here.” Noah baffles them every day by playing video games with a broken wrist, but his sour attitude has become predictable.

“You have a TV up in your bedroom.” Cattiness has only recently becomes Naomi’s go-to response to her brother’s uncanny retorts. “The stairs are down the hall, on the left.”

Noah responds with something equally as problematic, and the two of them try their hardest to make Zayn find the end of a tequila bottle before they can make his head throb with teenage petulance.

Zayn considers risking major back surgery in the future if he lies back down and pretends he doesn’t have to mediate the impromptu dispute, but he catches Liam trying to slip through the hallways undetected.

When the responsible adult makes eye contact with Zayn, his footfalls are obviously hurried, but he underestimates Zayn’s tolerance for fast movements after a painful night of sleep.

He didn’t go to college, and he never ran away from home, but Zayn was twenty-one once, and he spent three months of summer sprawled on the bed in Andy’s hippie van.

“Not so fast, you slimy fucker.” Zayn snags his foot on the pointy end of a paintbrush, but still manages to catch Liam with nine unhindered toes. “Where’re you going? Why are you so sweaty—that’s, _wow._ That’s gross, go take a shower.”

Liam could use a shave, if Zayn’s being overly critical. He looks like an overworked librarian most of the time, in colorless slacks and a button-up that he cuffs near his wrists. Zayn forgets that he looks good in a pair of running shorts – _even better in nothing at all_ – and a shirt with no sleeves.

Zayn, however, prefers a passionate sweat to that of someone who has spent an hour running around fire hydrants in the park. He holds his nose and shoves Liam towards the downstairs bathroom. “Is this why you wait to wake me up until after you’ve washed your armpits in the morning? Why does exercise make you _disgusting?_ ”

Liam stares at him dopily for a moment too long for either of them to be comfortable.

“I like the way you say disgusting. Dis- _goose_ -ting.” is all he says, harping on the fact that he thinks Zayn’s accent is hilarious. “If I didn’t hate you, it’d be kind of cute.”

Zayn almost tells him the way his lips curl around certain words makes him look like a gaping fish. But, for obvious reasons he doesn’t want Liam knowing that sometimes Zayn takes notice in the shape of Liam’s mouth.

“I hope you enjoy being a single parent.”

A bark of laughter beats at Zayn’s back on his way to the kitchen. Liam says something about going to clean himself up before going to work. If you can call baking cookies an actual job. Zayn ignores Liam and the soundtrack of Teenage Angst coming from the living room, taking a Tupperware bowl of edible Play-Dough from the refrigerator.

For a split second Zayn considers crying when he bends over to pick up Naya, but he reins it in before anyone can hear him. Zayn’s back is killing him, but Liam hasn’t said a word about having to sleep on the sofa, and just because he has more height— _barely_ —and a higher percentage of muscle mass, doesn’t mean he was superior in any physical way.

Liam wasn’t making waves about sleeping in the guest room because of discomfort, and Zayn refused to be the first one to cave.

“You really should just move into the room down the hall, uncle Zayn.” Naomi is sneaky, and not at all appreciated when she pops up in the small windows of time where Zayn isn’t paying attention to his surroundings. “We all know your back hurts.”

“My back is fine,” he insists. “It isn’t nice to scare people, make noise when you walk.”

She tilts her head, and Zayn tries to glare at her as fiercely as he can while hand-feeding Play-Dough hearts to a clapping child. “I don’t think your spine is supposed to curve like that.”

“Unless you’re eating doughy hearts with us, Naya and I are uninviting you to our breakfast bonding time.”

He gives her an ultimatum, because it feels like the adult thing to do.

_***_

_The Samuels’ house – in the dining room,, taking financial advice from a Muppet_

_***_

With careful consideration and a week’s worth of optimism, Liam has stopped pretending Zayn is hard of hearing, and has accepted his silence and noncommittal shrugs as confirmation – Zayn’s not going back to work any time soon.

It cuts daycare costs to zero, and Zayn has savings that he pulls from some magical bank account that never seems to deplete when Liam begs him to get Noah a box of Nyquil before the poor, miserable kid squeezes a lung through his nasal cavity.

As well as it’s going, Liam knows that a rocky start and solid landing are only bound to last for a limited time.

Noah unravels at the misuse of an adverb, unfortunately for Liam and his apparently grammatically incorrect vocabulary. Naya’s obvious speech problems, on top of making them nervous, are likely to put them in the hole sooner or later. Zayn keeps cutting his hand taking the bin to the curb – all on his busted glass bottles and all likely deserved for something in a past life. And Mimi’s going to need glasses soon if she keeps sitting too close to the television.

Granted, Liam figures they all want to crawl into the screen when they pass at odd hours of the night, watching Andy and Veronica dancing to their wedding song on the other side.

But if squinting at the image of her lively mother crowded in her father’s arms is what keeps Naomi from holding her knees to her chest and sobbing to the sky, then Liam and Zayn don’t mind paying for prescription lenses.

The downfall to their combined generosity means that they have to follow Harry’s financial advice and sell some of their draining assets.

“A world where I take pointers from Heraldo Styles is not a world that I want to live in.” Zayn shuffles papers from one pile to another, trying to give Liam the impression that he’s actively participating.

Liam doesn’t buy it, even a little. He focuses on the list at hand – all the junk they could stand to sell in order to stay afloat. “His name is Harold, and you know it. Don’t be insulting because you don’t want to sell your condo. It’s a smart idea. You’re not living there, why do you need it?”

“I just—I need it, okay? There’s not another place I can—V helped me pick it out, alright?” He picks at his nails, and Liam has known him, unfortunately, long enough to know that’s his default tell for nerves.

Liam’s not gonna push it, not today. 

Zayn has been acting like someone who is over twenty-five, and not entirely incompetent for so long, Liam’s forgotten that there’s a small child with abandonment issues hidden underneath his newly landscaped facial hair.

“Alright,” Liam moves back down the list, checking the ‘ _to sell’_ box beside his crappy apartment and the ‘ _to keep’_ box next to Zayn’s luxury condo. He kicks Zayn’s ankle under the table, fighting a smile when he groans in pain and tosses a wadded piece of paper at Liam’s forehead. “Hey, no violence, mister. I’m letting you keep your bachelor pad, okay?”

“It’s not a bachelor pad.” There’s a wrinkle on the side of Zayn’s nose when he snorts, and Liam has no clue why he hasn’t noticed it before. Zayn’s tongue wiggles around the point of his right canine tooth. “Bachelor pads are for people who need feng shui to get laid.”

As soon as Liam gets used to the lack of narcissism in Zayn’s personality, it rears it’s ugly and endearing – _just ugly, Liam_ – head again. He rolls his eyes when Zayn wets his bottom lip, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively with a Princess Sofia blanket lain over his shoulder.

“You forget that I’ve been to your place before.”

Zayn pushes away from the table, always one for a dramatic exit. “The ninety-degree angle of my sofa didn’t make you fuck me, Liam.”

He’s left alone there to blush on his own, cursing Zayn and his sunken cheekbones and flirty smile. There’s a flutter in the curtains and Liam knows that Andy is lurking somewhere in the shadows, laughing at Liam’s inability to ignore Zayn’s filthy mouth.

Liam considers being amused by Zayn’s quick and disruptive response, it certainly left Liam in a stupor. But he remembers catching Zayn an indecent amount of times, practicing his comebacks in the shower. In front of a mirror. Drunken in a bar bathroom. And suddenly he doesn’t feel as weak in the knees anymore.

He wonders how Zayn would feel about selling his motorcycle.

Not kindly, Liam discovers.

_***_

_The Samuel’s house, still – in the kitchen, where Zayn doesn’t understand teenagers_

_***_

Zayn understands being angry enough to scream into the pillow late at night, knows what it’s like to not be able to talk to anyone because the words rattling inside the confines of your skull don’t sound right on the end of your tongue.

He never forgets that he lost his mom long before strangers stuck her in the ground. The vague, glassy stare of his father never leaves the back of his mind, either. Sometimes he wonders if it’s wrong to miss someone that hated you.

“Does it matter what he said? He pissed me off, Zayn.” Noah huffs, jerking his skinny arm out of Zayn’s fingers and slamming his glass of water on the countertop, uncaring when it spills all over the goddamn place. “Couldn’t even call it a fight, lasted two seconds. I was _angry._ ”

 With all of those things in mind: his own insolence while being shot off in all different directions—hiding in car garages and stealing meals when Veronica’s face turned yellow and sickly, and the stutter in his strut after a skunked pack of beer at the impressionable age of ten. Zayn can’t let Noah get away with slamming kids into the ground because he’s having a bad day.

He’s been down that road, and it doesn’t end well.

The days are going to get worse; he just doesn’t realize it yet. And if Zayn can teach him now that hitting things— _people_ —will only make you feel like shit after the adrenaline wears off and your knuckles are busted open, then he won’t have to worry about Noah ending up drunk and lonely.

Like Zayn was, not even two months ago.

“You beat the shit out of someone with your fucking hard cast.” He thinks about pointing out the faded pink stain on the ends of Noah’s protected wrist, but doesn’t think it’ll be worth it in the long run. “It lasted long enough for you to beak his goddamn nose, and his jaw. And his _eyebrow_. How _the hell_ do you break someone’s eyebrow?”

“Like you’ve never done it before,” Noah snaps, using his good hand to jump onto the counter and swing his legs back and forth, wriggling to pull his phone out.

Zayn takes a deep breath, tells himself over and over again that Noah is acting out, and he’s not a fucking nuisance like he’s pretending to be, right this moment. “We’re not talking about me, Noah. And I’ve never—”

“Let’s start talking about you, then.”

“—broken someone’s _eyebrow_ with a hard cast, because if I want to fight someone I’m not going to _cheat_ and use—”

Noah looks up from his phone, lips in a thin line and feet still dangling. “Mom said you knocked someone out with a crowbar, once.”

Zayn doesn’t even think, just says the first thing that comes to mind because teenagers are so fucking _mean_. He used to be one not too incredibly long ago, so he should have been prepared for this, but Zayn just slams his hand in a puddle of spilt water and _speaks_.

“Your fuckin’ mom has _really_ got to stop telling you stories about me.”

Zayn hears it as soon as he says it, and tries to reach out and apologize. But Noah’s already sliding off the countertop, wiping at his eyes and shoving past Zayn. “Well don’t worry. My _fuckin’ mom_ won’t say anything about you ever again.”

Zayn lets the silence pound into his ears, tugs on his lobes when the ringing gets to be too much. With his hand over his mouth, he lets tears drip into the creases of his knuckles until Liam and Mimi walk through the door, Harry behind them with Naya bouncing beautifully in his arms.

They ask him what’s wrong, and why Zayn was called to pick Noah up early from school.

“Nothing,” he says. Because that’s what he feels like, right now. Fucking teenagers and their mind games. Fucking sister being clever and leaving too soon. “It was nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

_***_

_Achy Bakey Heart – the very social countertop_

_***_

“People say that dogs are a man’s best friend, uncle Liam.”

“Good thing you’re not a man, then.” He’s overheard this argument when her parents were alive, and he doesn’t know why but there’s a reason why Veronica always gave the kids a hard no where pets were involved. “You don’t need an animal, Mimi.”

“I will _die_ if I don’t get a dog.”

Liam towels down the counter, glaring at an elderly couple for encouraging a twelve year old and her request for an animal. Naomi pushes her new glasses up the end of her nose, sniffling while she slurps loudly around a yellow straw. “I’m sure you won’t die.”

“Your uncle wants a dog so bad, but he’s got this deep, hidden fear…” Taylor stages a pause, and Liam mocks her American accent behind her back. Naomi’s eyes double while she waits; Liam regrets not taking Mimi back to school after her optometrist appointment. “… _of messes._ Big messes, little messes. Medium sized messes in the kitchen. Teeny tiny messes on the carpet. Can you imagine what he’d do if a dog pooped on his carpet?”

“That’s no secret, Taylor.” Naomi purses her lips more than usual these days; she does it now while tearing apart a muffin and waving at Liam’s cashier when he hands her a napkin. “I’ve seen Liam try to change a diaper. Uncle Zayn had to step in before he started crying. I guess getting a dog might not be a good idea.”

She chews on her snack and Liam struggles to find words to properly defend his pride. “I didn’t— _they weren’t_ —I wasn’t _crying,_ Naomi.”

“A dirty diaper brought you to tears,” Taylors head falls back and she takes a tray of cookies from the rack without effort while Liam’s head crashes in his hands. “Liam, you’re the Baby _Master._ You love kids! How are you supposed to have baking doctor babies with Mr. Hunk if you can’t change a diaper?”

“I can change a diaper, Taylor.”

“Oh, _oh._ ” Taylor sorts out cookies and Liam calculates how long he could get by if he put his store manager on the streets right this second. Probably not to the end of the day. “Excuse me, I misspoke. Without crying. How are you going to have scientifically impossible babies with Doc if you can’t change a diaper _without_ crying?”

There’s a tin of flowers from Doc in the back room; just enough to be thoughtful, but not creepy. Liam has made Taylor apologize on his behalf multiple times while he hides in the back room with the bakers and pastry chefs during Doc’s mid-morning visits.

He takes them in stride – of course he does, not all men are emotionally constipated and hiding behind leather jackets and shaggy hair – and Liam’s infatuation with him only grows with each concerned conversation he overhears the man of his dreams have with his lifesaving assistant.

Liam always makes sure to stop obscuring his vision in time to see Doc’s behind in cotton slacks, because he’s shy not stupid.

“Who is Liam having babies with?”

Naomi looks around, back and forth between Taylor and Liam. Taylor folds her lips into her mouth and stares with wide eyes at Liam, silently apologizing when he sighs. “I’m not having babies with anyone, baby. Drink your orange juice.”

She possesses the same puzzled expression her father used to wear – knit brows with a wrinkle on the left side of her mouth, frowning because not knowing something aggravates her – and Liam has to take a healthy sip of coffee that chars his throat to quell the urge to cry.

He can almost see beyond the plate of her skull, watching her methodically piece the perfect words together before they come out of her mouth. That’s something she assuredly didn’t inherit from Andy.

After slurping again, Naomi clears her throat. “You don’t have to talk about uncle Zayn in code names when I’m around. We all know who you want to have babies with if you could. Zayn isn’t even a doctor, anyway. The nickname doesn’t make much sense.”

“Zayn is _not_ Doc,” Taylor clarifies because Liam still can’t process his little niece growing up with a smart mouth; she was so nice before she turned twelve. “Zayn is—Zayn is definitely not Doctor Hotty-pants.

Deciding she’s done serving the dwindling line of customers, Taylor hops over the counter, not caring that she has a small skirt struggling to cover her behind as she does so. “No, no. Doc is a handsome guy that’s into Liam. He’s got a gorgeous face, and this small little ponytail that sounds weird but it grows on you. Sometimes he leaves Liam gifts when he’s not here.”

Blinking, Naomi dryly dictates her displeasure with a shrug. “You just described my uncle Zayn. Pretty face, check. Noah says ‘s genetic. Weird ponytail – all the guys in my family have greasy man hair in buns. Even Harry. Oh my goodness, is Doc… Harry?”

“ _My_ _god,_ no.” Liam and Taylor answer reverently.

Mimi looks a smidge too relieved that Liam isn’t going to make pretend children with Harold. “Oh, well then it could still be Zayn.”

“Zayn’s never given me a present,” Liam points out.

“He used to sell pictures of your face, that’s romantic.”

“Um, Zayn sold a—”

Liam stops her, not proud of the way he’s about to argue with a child half his age. “Not right now, Taylor. Naomi, that is _not_ romantic – it’s creepy.”

“If you think he’s creepy, why did you have so much sex with him?”

His world is ending, it’s actually stopped spinning right then. If the innocent one is behaving terribly, then there’s no hope for the rest of the Samuels’ children. “I did – you’re _grounded._ Well, not grounded but. Taylor, don’t say _anything._ ”

“How could you not tell me you had _sex with Zayn?_ ” She covers her face, pretending she doesn’t enjoy a scandal, and Liam tries very hard to vanish in place. “Oh shit, does Harry know? Does your _case worker_ know? Are you guys _still_ having sex?”

She buries Liam in a pit of questions, and through the haze Liam sees Mimi smiling with her knuckles holding her chin up. Still not used to her glasses, her fingers prod them up the bridge of her nose periodically. Her smirk is too smug to fit her face, and Liam wonders if all kids develop evil sensibilities at this age.

“Don’t think you’re getting a dog now, missy,” Liam whispers over Taylor’s crazed line of questioning, disguising his worry at Naomi’s lack of concern as irritation and stern co-parenting. “I thought you were the good one.”

Her smile could scare the joy off children, or the paint from a truck.

“I am the good one, Uncle Liam.” The rise in her voice doesn’t fool him, but it does make him gulp nervously. “Hey, does Zayn know about your Doctor boyfriend?”

“If I take you to the shelter after school, will you stop being _so mean_ to me?”

“You know I can’t make those kinds of promises.”

_***_

_The Samuels’ house – in the kitchen, where Zayn doesn’t understand preteens either_

_***_

“You’re not getting a dog.” It’s not like Naomi to bombard him with questions during his professional visits with Eleanor. But Naomi wears glasses now, and swears when she bites her tongue chewing up a sandwich.

Persistence is hardly the most troublesome quality the Samuels’ children have developed. When she starts breaking glasses and skipping class, Zayn will spend an extra hour drinking underneath the awning at before he goes to bed.

“A cat then, if I can’t have a dog.” There’s an insincere wobble in voice that is commendable, but not successful. When Zayn still doesn’t chance a look in her direction, she whines high in her throat while he tries to complete the same survey Eleanor hands him once a week. “Liam said I could have a pet. I want a dog, but I’ll take a cat.”

“Liam’s not the one that stays home during the day while you’re at school and he’s at work making banana bread to pay for your bifocals.” Zayn ticks the last box, shaking ink to the end of the pen so he can write his name at the top of the page. Naomi informs him shrilly that she was _not_ prescribed bifocals. “They’re still expensive, and we can’t afford to pay for tubs full dog food. And Noah hates cats.”

“Noah hates everything.”

Eleanor clears her throat, and Zayn knows that she has an appointment in half an hour with another family somewhere on the other side on Merchant. Zayn bites the inside of his left cheek, then his right, and tries not to blanch remembering when blueberry pancakes were all it too to make Noah smile. Instead, he worries about the nerve-racking blend of Eleanor’s squinting eyes and Naomi’s round, pleading ones.

“No pets until you move out, or drop out of school to take care of them.” He stops both ladies when they look at him with conflicting reactions of outrage and agreement. “That’s a joke,” Zayn says in surrender of Eleanor’s disapproving cough. “I was joking. No one is dropping out of school. Not for a cat – a dog, maybe.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely not.”

Besides maybe Noah, if he keeps slamming his cast into people’s noses.

Eleanor crafts an expression of un-amusement and judgment at the immaturity that jeopardizes her faith in his ability to parent mini-adults. He hopes his smile is charming enough to counter her fickle meter of aggravation, but Zayn’s not going to hold his breath.

“Liam _specifically_ said—”

“ _I said_ no, Naomi. Stop asking.”

Zayn surprises himself with this abundance of patience. On a good day, he can have three conversations with Noah – who is unapproachable at all hours of the day – and change twelve diapers. Whining is where his resolve ends.

If the pitchy scratch of Mimi’s pestering didn’t irritate the headache that came with having alphabet blocks tossed at your skull for the personal pleasure of a three-year-old, Zayn would have thanked Naomi for helping him display his range of disciplinary skills to their case worker.

If the way Eleanor nods at him has any direct correlation to Zayn’s lack of failure to stand firm to the persuasive eyes of a girl pushing thirteen, then Zayn would say he’s doing pretty damn good.

“Well—then _Liam lied._ ” The pinch of Naomi’s features is concerning, considering she saves most of her facial delicacies for sarcasm and public embarrassment. Desperation is rarely in her wheelhouse. “And he’s getting married, soon. To a _doctor_.”

There’s an ever-running source of practicality in a majority of Naomi’s actions. Zayn relies of her to skip the family’s daily dose of crazy. “Liam is not getting married,” he promises her, eyeing her warily and jotting a mental note to speak to Liam about Mimi’s change in behavior, as well as his accused upcoming nuptials. “Also, if he is, I don’t see what that has to do with you getting a cat.”

“It could be a dog,” she winds a thin string of hair at the end of her finger in an innocent gesture that’s too calculated to land her any added lenience. “He is, though. They’re going to have babies. He’s a doctor, they’ll figure it out. Taylor says so.”

Zayn has no doubt that Naomi should never, ever drop out of school. “Who is Taylor?”

“Taylor Swift. She’s one of Liam’s employees, a home owner in the area, and a longtime client of Harold Styles.” Eleanor answers, reminding Zayn that she’s still in the room, still scribbling notes into an open book, watching.

Zayn honestly doesn’t know who they’re talking about, unless it’s that quirky blonde chick that leers at him when he drops Naya off at _Achy Bakey Heart_. Which, Zayn still reserves, is a horribly cheesy name for a business.

Eleanor snatches the finished survey from underneath the palm of his hand. Zayn’s been convinced that these things aren’t meant to be graded, but Eleanor attacks his page with a frown and a bleeding red pen. Like she’s going to fail Zayn for rating his thoughts and actions from numbers one through five.

“Is she hot,” he asks, trying to distinguish all Liam’s coworkers in his mind. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t know _who she is_ , so I’m trying to get an idea in my head.”

Her scowl would probably be endearing, if Zayn hadn’t seen her down seven shots and walk perfectly sober from the front door the seat of a cab, walking back into the house five hours later in a business suit and a clipboard.

“You should be familiarized with any and all adults that come into direct contact with your children.”

They’re not my kids, Zayn thinks. “Yeah, alright.”

“Can I get a—”

Exhaling through his nose, Zayn points in the direction of the living room. “I will throw away every paintbrush I find on the floor in the next hour and a half if you ask for another animal.”

Naomi moves along accordingly, and Zayn wonders if Liam wants to take them away from him – the last family members he has left. Will he encourage Mimi’s art the same way he glorifies Noah’s previous basketball infatuation? Does he know that Zayn is not the only one who enjoys his and Naya’s afternoon Jeopardy viewings?

He doesn’t, Zayn knows.

Sitting across from him, Eleanor snaps a manicured hand near the end of his nose. “Are you listening?”

Zayn lifts one shoulder, answering honestly for his own safety. “Not really, no.”

“If Liam is filing for a marriage license, there is another mountain of paperwork I need to bring the three of you.”

It’s uncanny, how Eleanor holds her personal feelings underneath a professional mask that he’s yet to see her peel away when she’s on the clock. Months have gone by, shared nights and drinks and stories, and Zayn has tried to identify cracks in her practiced façade. But right now, with her eyes low and fingers ceased in their consistent patter, Zayn can make out three kinds of unwarranted worry on his behalf.

  1. Zayn tries to think up what kind of stupid, outrageously proud ring Liam would slide onto his left hand – Zayn could not manage to care less.



Liam is not getting married. Zayn repeats this calmly to the woman sitting under the light of the window across from him. “Liam’s just—he isn’t getting married. If he was dating, or even getting laid – I would know about it. He wouldn’t keep shoving trays of bran muffins into my bread box.”

“Bran muffins?”

“Liam’s a healthy and nervous baker.” And right now, Liam contains enough pent up frustration—and sadness, let’s be fair—to curb the hunger of a small militant army. Not that his anti-war views would warrant this, but Zayn’s thinking proportions here. “It’s driving the kids nuts. But he’s been like that since I’ve known him. Filled my place up with organic guacamoles more than once after my first motorcycle accident a few years back. I think he was more worried than me. Fuckin’ hate guacamoles now.”

Eleanor’s lips fold into a thin line any time he brings up Liam’s odd habits. “Interesting,” she says, like she does every other time. “Very interesting.”

“Not really,” Zayn draws out skeptically. “But alright.”

“How would that make you feel? If Liam started dating outside of the house.”

The curiosity in the lift of Eleanor’s mouth tells Zayn this isn’t a question fueled by professional curiosity. “The government doesn’t pay you to be my shrink. But I’ll give you a freebee, and say I don’t give a shit. If Liam wants to date, he can fuckin’ date.”

Eleanor holds up a finger, and chews dangerously at her top lip. “Let me rephrase that, then. The relationship between you and Liam—”

“Non-existant, next question.”

“Let me finish, Mr. Malik.” She doesn’t look down at her half-filled piece of paper, writes perfectly while staring at Zayn. Eleanor is the girl he has nightmares about encountering. “You and Liam Payne, co-guardians of all three Samuels’ children – describe your relationship.”

“Uncomplicated.”

_***_

_Later the same day, in the living room at the front of the house_

_***_

Liam’s minding his own business, there are an unidentified number of people that will coin this improbable—Liam minding his own business—but on occasion, he’s capable.

He’s honestly not bothering anyone by tidily spreading a blanket over the couch cushions while Zayn puts his nieces to bed.

No one has to tuck Noah in, but they do make sure he’s cleared a plate of food and done all his homework before they bring him his painkillers. No one knows if his hand will ever be the same.

They’ve yet to conquer a nighttime routine with Naya; she’s hell-bent on wetting her fingers in her mouth and dry heaving her mother’s name around a blanket damp with her tears. She wakes a happy baby. Frustratingly mute, but pleasant and willing to trounce through the house on Naomi’s pant leg until Zayn slugs to the kitchen to make breakfast.

Liam offers, but after a bin full of nibbled spinach croissants, he stopped wasting his efforts.

Despite his endeavor to do nothing but prepare his sleeping quarters, Zayn still pads into the living room and drops a bomb dead-center in the middle of Liam’s chest. “You’re not getting married, are you?”

Liam almost snaps something important in his neck, looking at Zayn hunched over in the entryway. “ _What?_ ”

Zayn thumbs above him, where they can hear the not-so-quiet footsteps in the room above them – Naomi’s. “I have a preteen that thinks you’re trying to have medically impossible babies with some genius doctor. Dated a doctor once,” Zayn laughs into his hand, fingers rubbing the length of his chin. “They’re not the marrying kind.”

If anyone asks, Liam will tell them that this is a prime reason why Noah is still his favorite. Even if he only eats Liam’s cakes and still prefers Harry to take him to physical therapy. At least he’s never successfully attempted to blackmail Liam.

“I’m—I haven’t.” Liam has a hard time remembering how to speak, and it seems like a good idea to sit before his knees weaken of their own accord. “I haven’t really given him a call. Too chicken to really, um, get out there. It’s been a while for me.”

He doesn’t think it’s fair to court someone when Liam still sees his best friend in the flowers on the kitchen table and the shine of yellow-blonde hair. Doc is handsome, and so far, kind. He’s put together in a way that Liam hasn’t accomplished personally in all the years he’s been alive.

Liam was too messed up before – _organized chaos_ – and he can’t imagine how long it will take him to mend properly before he starts falling short in the dating department again.

“You can date, you know?” Zayn hasn’t been eating well, so when he carefully strides to the other end of the couch Liam can make out the points of his hip bones underneath his sweatpants. “There’s nothing,” he pauses and Liam wonders when he stopped hating the curl at the end of Zayn’s shoulder-long hair. “There’s nothing between us that should stop you from fucking other people.”

For a second, Liam considered the possibilities of Zayn having a heartfelt moment without using his foul mouth as a scapegoat for legitimate feelings, but that boat sails and Liam is ashore, lost and confused.

“There’s nothing between us,” Liam repeats, testing the words out on his tongue in this context. It’s nothing he hasn’t said to Zayn himself more than half a dozen times; it tastes different now. “Nothing between us. Got it.”

“I didn’t mean—”

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised, or why it’s so upsetting that Zayn finally being an asshole again. Tragedy or not, their original dynamic was bound to return in time. 

Liam didn’t think it would be so soon.

“I know what you meant.” His lips barely move around his words, and if he squeezes his eyes hard enough he can only see the impression of Zayn in the refracted light that hasn’t left his eyeballs. “Can you go to your side of the house, now? I’d like to sleep before my run in the morning.”

Liam expects him to execute this task perfectly, given Zayn’s disturbing evasion of adult conversations. At the very least, he waits for Zayn to say something despicably dirty before making Liam feel like an idiot for ever thinking – in the decade that they’ve miserably coexisted – that Zayn was capable of admitting any kind of need for companionship.

“You think you know _everything._ ” What Liam doesn’t count on, is Zayn diminishing the space between them to steer Liam’s attention in his direction, forcing his eyes open when the unwearied fingers guiding Liam’s chin counter the impatience in Zayn’s voice. “I didn’t mean that you mean nothing to me. Fuckin’ hate your guts sometimes, but I’ve known you for too long for us—for _this_ to be _nothing_. We’re friends, Liam. _That’s_ what’s between us.”

It doesn’t _feel_ like they’re friends when Zayn’s got his hands on Liam, and neither one of them can look away – they crash in the most cruel and interesting ways. Liam hasn’t had time to feel anything other than worry and regret, and longing for a beer on the back porch with Andy’s wife.

“I know what you want, but this isn’t real. We didn’t have two point five kids together and put up picket fences in the front yard. They were already there when we moved into our dead friend’s house.” Zayn’s words are cruel, but his touch is kind. “Sorry you didn’t get it the right way, and sorry it wasn’t with someone you actually like. Doesn’t mean you still can’t find someone. Not stopping you from— _I don’t care_ who you date. We’re just friends.”

“Just friends,” Liam’s on autopilot, and he can feel the ridge of Zayn’s thumb when his lips move. “We’re just friends.”

“And friends don’t lie to each other. So next time you plan on getting married, give me a heads up.” Zayn breathes, and the breath on his cheeks makes them feel closer than they are. Liam yearns for something else, but he knows it’s pointless, reckless, and not worth the time he’d be wasting.

He silently thanks Andy for teaching him restraint in the form of men’s shenanigans, and Liam frees himself from the pads of Zayn’s thumb and forefinger.

Later, Liam will blame the gravel in his voice on exhaustion, instead of uneasiness. “If it makes you feel any better, I hate you a little bit, too.”

Zayn forces a laugh to come out of his mouth. Liam knows, because he’s heard Zayn laugh with his heart, and the sound he makes now lacks validity. “Loads better. I feel great.” 

“Can I get some sleep now?”

 _“May I,_ ” Zayn corrects, because it must not feel right, not being a dick for longer than two minutes. “And yeah, I don’t give a shit. I’ll get out of your way.”

Liam clears all the unsaid words from his throat and Zayn excuses himself from the couch. The footsteps above them stopped promptly before Zayn’s confession of friendship, and their labored breathing is the only sound in their ringing ears.

Zayn is kind enough to switch the lights off on his way to the other living room.

Liam’s just getting comfortable, head on the pillow and feet tucked underneath the throw blanket when Zayn speaks into the dark. “I’m glad, though.”

“Glad about what?”

“Glad you’re not getting married.”

Liam doesn’t know what to say, so he keeps his mouth closed. He does go to bed with a smile on his face, but he hopes Zayn can’t see it in the dark.

_***_

Zayn is a lying liar, who lies.

_***_

_The Samuels’-Malik-Payne house – the living room – approximately Jeopardy time_

_***_

“Did you wear dad jeans before I met you, or is this a new development?” Eleanor’s wrist tilts an inch to pour glassed juice into her mouth. Zayn looks up at her from his place on the floor, unappreciative. She lifts a bony shoulder, and finishes the rest of her non-alcoholic grape beverage. “I already know the answer to that question; because I do remember you trying to hit on me when I was married, and you weren’t wearing a polo shirt or pants with multi-purpose pockets.”

He makes funny faces at the three year old in front of him, only responding to Eleanor’s unnecessary comments when Naya occupies her attention with an athletic sneaker in her reach. “Do you know what you can fit into the pockets of skinny jeans? Smart phones. That’s it. Not pacifiers or spare keys, or inhalers.”

“All of these things are acceptable to place in a bag,” she says, but Eleanor has never had to endure the lungful of screams from a child trying, and ultimately succeeding, in extending her terrible twos. “I’m just saying: you’re starting to look your age.”

He ignores her, because Zayn hasn’t yet perfected the art of changing someone after an accident. Naya wiggles on her back and says words that Zayn doesn’t understand until he’s got her in a fresh pair of big-girl panties that he’s beginning to second-guess her readiness for.

Naya has nightmares that she can’t explain in her gibberish, and Liam thinks that they should hire an outside speech therapist to help her relearn the words they know were already built into her vocabulary before… everything that has happened.

Eleanor says children deal with loss in their own ways, and that Naya will talk when she’s ready.

Zayn sends Naya away with a new dress and a lidded cup of apple juice that will do minimal damage to whichever carpet she decides to spill it on this afternoon. “Aren’t you supposed to encourage me to pick up parenting habits?”

“Not when we’re friends, I’m not. Be a good dad,” she says, finishing her drink. “But don’t damage my reputation by carrying pacifiers in your fanny pack.”

A clean tank top makes Eleanor look less intimidating than any of her navy blazers, and Zayn wants to _scream at her_ that he’s not anyone’s father. The feeling passes when she gathers the length of her hair in her hands, and Zayn compares her face to his sister’s; he finds the same kind eyes.

Coughing to excuse his distraction, Zayn worms into a seat beside her with a vantage point of his baby niece galloping in front of the TV. He honestly doesn’t know what that’s about. “The fanny pack was one time, and it was a joke.”

“It was _twice_ , and I saw you pull your cell phone and a stick of lip balm from that thing. Nothing more.” The inside of her mouth is purple, and Zayn finds it unreasonable that he only tried to sleep with Eleanor once. The pale skin above one of her knuckles reminds him of reason, and Zayn falls easily back into their conversation. “There was nothing parental in that pack, and we both know it. Lying to yourself is a very unbecoming quality.”

It wasn’t really even a fanny pack, but Zayn has no motivation to argue with anyone when he’s watching Naya prance near the window with her hands attached to her hips.

Zayn hopes his niece talks again.

They’ve been sitting on the couch in silence, the same couch that Zayn had an incredibly confusing moment with Liam about two weeks ago. Eleanor knows what Zayn told her – very little, and she thinks Zayn has a tiny crush on the same man that folds the end of the toilet paper after every use.

Zayn thinks she should stick to prescribing the wellbeing of children, and not adults.

He slides a loose rubber band from his arm around his hair. Zayn finds a Fruit Loop in the bun that spills over his head, and throws it in Eleanor’s empty glass while she gags and Zayn questions his decision to let his hair grow. “Do you think I need a haircut?”

“Speaking of unbecoming qualities,” is how Eleanor answers, standing up with crease marks on the back of her thighs, blowing Naya a kiss on her way to refill her glass. “Yes, your hair is maybe the grossest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Alcoholic or child-certified, Eleanor has never been slow about pouring herself a drink. She’s back beside Zayn before he has time to processes her words and be offended. “Have you _seen_ Harry’s feet after he takes off his boots?”

She doesn’t seem phased, letting Naya crash into her legs and onto her lap. “I have. A tad glittery, but otherwise lovely. Nothing like the greasy, unmanaged mess that is your hair. Harry’s oddly symmetrical everywhere.”

“ _Everywhere,_ ” Zayn wiggles his eyebrows suggestively because he likes the flush that disappears down Eleanor’s top.

How she manages to look deadly with a giggling toddler in her lap, Zayn doesn’t know. “And here I was thinking you were the first man I ever met that I didn’t absolutely hate.”

He waits for the other part of that sentence, digging his hone from his pocket. Four incessant vibrations means Liam’s texting him. “Okay, but…”

“But I was wrong,” she says, but Zayn’s known her too long to feel insulted. “Hey, did you get the same text I just got?”

His coat is by the door, and Zayn is already searching for Naya’s sippy cup. “The one about Noah trying to get suspended from school? Yeah, I got it. Liam says they need both guardians at the school right now. He’s already there.”

“I’ll go with you; I have a suit in my car.”

Frankly, he tries to be surprised by that but fails. “Of course you do.”

“For the sake of our friendship, please don’t judge me in medium wash jeans my grandpa owns. I’ll hurt your feelings.”

“They’re _not_ dad jeans.”

“They _are._ ”

_***_

_The Samuels’-Malik-Payne house – Zayn + teenagers + kitchen = shit_

_***_

Zayn endures three hours of daytime television with Noah, and then he’s done. Noah indisputably detests any and every thing, and Zayn didn’t forgo a legitimate income to sit at home with a mute toddler and a morbid teenager.

Noah will be spending the next two weeks home as a result of the two broken noses of both kids he’d beat the shit out of with his molded cast. It’s not the first time Noah has used his injured arm as a weapon, and despite Liam’s faith in the instilled morality of his favorite Samuels’ child, Zayn doesn’t think it will be the last time.

It’s not even the most brutal of his attacks, but after three strikes the headmaster didn’t have any choice but to send Noah on his way for the safety of his students.

If he’s being candid, Zayn’s appalled that they haven’t leveled him with a harsher penalty thus far.

Zayn had fought hard for an in-school punishment until Liam kicked him under the table, because it might have become obvious that he didn’t want Noah to sit at home and drive _him_ crazy.

“ _I’ll_ watch him,” Liam had said, rolling his eyes at Zayn’s refusal to be yelled at for twenty-four hours of his day, instead of the usual seven – when Noah was in school, or locked in his room. But on Monday afternoon—the _first fucking day_ , he’d dropped Noah by the house while Zayn was sorting socks, and sighed hard enough to encourage the slightest of sympathies from Zayn. “I can’t do it, Zayn. I love Noah – I love him _so much_ , don’t get me wrong. But he’s so mean. So, _so_ mean.”

Zayn doesn’t feel as much for Liam when his teenage male drains a glass of soda on the carpet, and refuses to give Zayn the remote when Jeopardy comes on. He’s willing to testify to a jury of his peers that this is what made him snap.

“You’re not old enough to watch Jeopardy every day, Zayn.” Looking at Noah’s hair makes Zayn want to cut his. He looks dirty and defeated, and the bags under his eyes match the luggage Zayn sees when he washes his face in the morning. “Why you looking at me like that? You are. Daytime TV is stupid.”

“Daytime TV _is_ stupid, but it’s addicting.” Naya opens and closes her palms, staring at her brother silently until Zayn puts a word block in her hand—which she immediately wets with her mouth. Zayn presses a hand to his forehead and tries to focus on one problem at a time. “After fourteen solid days at home, you’ll learn to appreciate Alex Trebek.”

“I doubt it.” Noah’s lips are the only things that have moved in the last hour.

“I don’t.”

Eleanor has sat down with Noah, and she worries about as much as Liam does. But they keep their concern hushed and whispered in corners where no one can hear, least of all Noah. Harry’s good for him, they say, and Zayn doesn’t see the appeal but he’s very careful in the time he allows them to spend together, because even if it’s not predatory, it’s still fucking weird.

Zayn was twelve when he could stop long enough to be angry at something. They were in a home with temporary parents that wouldn’t love them in a month, and Zayn hated his mother for having kids she couldn’t properly care for. He hated Yaser for keeping her on the line – addicted to the rush more than the drugs – and he hated himself for not being enough to make them put the needle down.

Noah hates himself for something, but Zayn hasn’t figured out what it is yet.

They don’t talk because Noah won’t let them. Besides Harry, who won’t break the trust he’s developed with Zayn’s nephew, none of them know what’s going on in Noah’s head, or if he’s ready to talk about anything other than all the things he’s angry about.

Zayn knows that Liam thinks they’ve got something in common, now. But he wants to bond with Noah over the amazing-ness of the Daytime television lineup, not the fatal accident of his parents, and Zayn’s sister.

Zayn takes a chance, and knows before he finishes the first sentence that he’s going to regret everything that goes on here today.

“Y’know, your dad got kicked out of school when he was your age?” Noah opens his mouth, but Zayn keeps talking because someone has to talk to him eventually. Zayn’s ashamed that he hasn’t sat Noah down sooner. “I didn’t know until Liam told me last night, but he was. I don’t know what he did, but you could probably ask Liam. It seemed kind of private, so it’s something really fucking good, I know it.”

He’s vulnerable, exposed and out of his element, scooping up an unsuspecting three-year-old as a human shield when Noah takes too long to respond.

They wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

Until Noah chews the words over in his mouth, and spits them out casually while he balances the remote in his good hand. “Did _you_ know that I was supposed to stay the night at Victoria’s? It wasn’t my first party, but it was the first party that mom and dad knew about.”

That shocks Zayn until he starts thinking about it. If Zayn had a house to sneak out of at Noah’s age, he would have done it a million times over. “Smooth,” Zayn holds up his fist to congratulate him. It seems like the cool uncle thing to do. Noah looks at his hand until Zayn lowers it into his lap. “No fist-bumping, got it. Okay.”

“Anyway,” Noah sighs too heavy for a person his age. “I was supposed to spend the night at Victoria’s, and I thought it was super cool that mom was going to let that happen.”

“That does sound a little evolved for your mother.”

_Zayn’s sister._

“But,” Noah pointedly starts again, and Zayn raises his hands in regret for the interruption. Something important was about to happen here. “I didn’t know that mom had called Victoria’s mom and made arrangements.” Zayn wants to interject with an apology, but he stays quiet. “So not only was I the lame kid who had his parents drop him off for a party, I was also the kid who had his mom call and make it a sleepover so she didn’t have to get out too late.”

That’s fucking harsh, god. Zayn knew _those kids_ , talked some shit to a few of them and ignored the rest of them. No one likes a momma’s boy, and Zayn wonders if it would have been different if Trish wasn’t a dead junkie.

“I’m sorry for that,” Zayn says, steadying Naya on his lap with a hand over her belly while she salivates on an apparently scrumptious alphabet block. “V was – she was protective. She meant well. I’m sorry, Noah.”

“Not as sorry as I am for calling her to pick me up.” Noah isn’t talking to Zayn anymore, just speaking at him with a blank face and no hint of emotion in his voice. “I was so mad at her, and no one even told me. Had to listen to stupid fuckin’ Nelson talk shit in the hallway on my way to the bathroom.”

Zayn wants to reach out and hold his hand, talk Noah through it because whatever happened, it’s not his fault. Nothing that occurred is something he should take the blame for, and Zayn curses himself several times over for not thinking of this sooner; for not pursuing this line of thought the week when Noah was smashing glasses and screaming into his pillows.

“Noah, it’s n—”

“They picked me up, and all they did was apologize. Mom never stopped saying she was sorry and I didn’t even talk to her. Not one word because I was _mad._ How stupid is that, huh?”

Noah’s not outraged, he’s not sad – there’s nothing where his tears are supposed to be, and Zayn wonders how many times he’s gone through this. He wants to keel over at the idea of Noah sitting through his own internal monologue so many times that he’s calloused when he shares it with others. “Noah, you can’t think like that.”

He doesn’t want to hear it – hell, Zayn’s not sure that Noah does hear him.

“The car came out of nowhere, and the last thing they both did was reach into the backseat to make sure I was okay. Lasted a second, but I saw it. They _mom’ed me_ from the front seat like they’d done it a million times.” Noah bores his line of sight into the wall somewhere behind Zayn, and he loses his tears in Naya’s wispy hair. “They would bump elbows and we’d all laugh. No one was laughing when I woke up.”

“Noah.”

“I couldn’t yell loud enough. We were in the middle of the road. It was so quiet.” Noah turns maniacally to look out the window across the room, and then tilts his head in question. “When I woke up in the hospital I’d forgotten how they looked lying in the car, d’you know that? The first thing I thought when I woke up was that they deserved whatever broken arm or leg they had. ‘Cause they humiliated me in front of a bunch of stupid people that don’t even matter, and I wanted them to pay for it.”

Zayn can’t talk, and Naya doesn’t know what’s going on around her. He rocks the both of them and tells himself it’s for her benefit. “Noah, stop please. I can’t – I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“They did pay for it, Uncle Zayn. They’re dead because I didn’t want to hear Nelson make fun on me in the bathroom hallway. It’s all on me.” Something overcomes the kid in front of Zayn, it’s dark and dangerous and Noah looks like a wild man when he sits up suddenly and pulls his hair away from his face. “I don’t want to talk about my dad. Or my mom. _Ever._ Not with you, or anyone, okay? Leave me alone.”

Noah evicts himself from the couch and bounds up the stairs, each heavy step puncturing something in Zayn’s chest until he hears his bedroom door close, and it’s safe to collapse with a baby in his arms.

Zayn stays there until Liam and Naomi get home. Naya naps and doesn’t complain too much about the wetness of her uncle’s cheeks clumping up her hair.

Zayn’s defenses are weak enough to let Liam hold him, right in that spot when everyone is asleep. The sun comes up and Liam’s arms are still around his middle when everyone is pouring themselves bowls of cereal in the kitchen. Zayn says thank you and they don’t talk about what happened or why a teenager brought Zayn to the lowest point in his life, because Liam cries like he got the very same speech.

Zayn invites Harry over two days later, and he and Noah only talk when it’s time for Jeopardy.

_***_

_***_

Before she stopped seeing her mom everyday, and her dad was no longer around to spend an hour with her after work going over shapes, words, and colors—Naya talked as much as she could.

No more than four words at a time, and a consistent use of the word _no_ , but she was talking. Andy was proud, and Naya could communicate.

_Have my cup? No nap. Mimi is bye-bye? I no want milk._

She only ever calls for her parents, now.

It took three months to get her settled, but Naya sleeps through the night. She only cries when she and Liam walk in on Naomi watching home movies, and Naya doesn’t understand why her Mommy won’t come out of the TV.

Noah says they’re crippling her, and Eleanor agrees that they shouldn’t be picking her up as much as they do. Zayn, Liam, Mimi, and Harry—they’re all guilty. It’s difficult, though, now that Naya needs more attention and can’t tell them what she wants.

Zayn and Liam share a loveseat, thighs nearly overlapping every time one of them moves to scoop Naya off the floor for a few seconds, before they remember it’s more productive if she’s playing on her own.

Liam thinks that Zayn looks the best like that; giggling like no one is watching him and blowing air into his niece’s round tummy. She opens her mouth, blinking eyes identical to the ones staring back at her, and they’re both waiting for her to say, _‘Stop, Unca Zen!’_ but she clamps her mouth shut instead, squirming until Zayn releases her back into a battlefield of colored blocks she obviously has no intention of using.

Crestfallen, they share a sigh. Liam considers patting his co-guardian’s knee, but doesn’t think Zayn will appreciate the platitude. “We’ve got to do something about that, Liam. She wants to fucki—she _wants to talk_. I can see it.”

Naya isn’t dumb, and it’s been too long of a day for the thumb in her mouth to bother Liam enough to interrupt her play time. She looks at him from the corner of her eye like she knows they’re discussing her developmental barriers. She doesn’t look pleased, but she’s three and mute, so Liam gives her the space to be cranky.

“We’ve got to help her.”

Rightfully so, Zayn’s still distraught beside him.

It has something to do with already losing his connection with one of the Samuels’ children, Liam knows it does. The faux smiles and the cheer are getting to him, it’s obvious. Facades have always been Zayn’s least favorite thing, and it’s killing him watching Mimi hide behind a wall of quiet nonchalance while Noah does… whatever it is that Noah is doing these days.

Now Naya is trapped inside her own body, words out of her reach and feet never on the ground.

Noah chooses that moment to come through the door, and Liam tries his hardest not to wince at the crack of wood in the foyer as he slams the door shut behind him. Physical therapy is never easy for him, even when Harry takes him to and from Dr. Garrett’s office.

Apparently the ride in Harry’s piece of shit car isn’t enough to lodge Noah out of his permanent bad mood.

“How’d the PT go, little man?” Liam can hear Noah in the kitchen, banging around to find something he can eat with one hand. He starts to stand up, but Zayn keeps him still with spanning fingers over the top of Liam’s thigh, shaking his head. “Noah? You alright in there? I made you some—”

“Physical therapy was shit.” Liam turns his head to see Noah standing near the staircase, box of sugary wrapped snacks that Liam did not approve on this week’s shopping list in his good hand. “Physical therapy is _always_ shit. I tell you that whenever you ask, so I don’t know _why_ you _keep_ asking.”

Noah doesn’t give Liam a chance to tell him to watch his language before he’s disappearing up the stairs. Both Liam and Zayn wait for the final crash of his bedroom door before they breathe again, sagging against each other because there’s no where left to lean.

“One problem at a time, Zayn,” he says, watching Naya willingly ignore everything happening around her. She frowns at her fingers and Liam lets his hand land unwisely close to Zayn’s tensing fingers. “I can only deal with one problem at a time.”

“What have we signed ourselves up for?”

Liam laughs, dropping his forehead into the sloping curve of Zayn’s shoulder. “It’s a little late to be asking yourself that, you don’t think?”

“Guess you’re right.” He sniffs the air dramatically before pulling on the ends of Liam’s hair with his opposite hand. “I think she went to the bathroom in her big girl panties, again.”

“Good thing it’s your turn, huh?”

“Oh, it’s _so not_ my fucking turn, Liam.”

“Language, Zayn. _Language._ ”

_***_

_The Samuels’ house is easier to put on a mailing list – the backyard_

_***_

Having a sibling and losing them isn’t the same as losing a pinky toe, but there’s a similar loss of balance, and until the nerve endings are singed off or sewed up, there’s a pain somewhere prominent in your body with each permitted step you take.

Drinking is a ritual that his social worker does not permit, but doesn’t stop. Because the wellbeing of all sleeping children isn’t directly linked to the bottles of cheap wine that Zayn empties into his stomach until his lips are bleeding color.

“I’m not an expert, but I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to use a swing set.” Liam speaks so analytically sometimes, like everything is a declaration. Zayn hates how definite his syntax makes everything sound.

Completely free of drugs, but not innocent of alcohol consumption, Zayn continues to swing upside down with his feet in the air, hair mingling with the grass. “I think this is exactly how you’re supposed to swing, Liam.”

He thinks that’s what comes out of his mouth, but better than anyone, Zayn knows that the translations of a drunken mind are not always accurate.

The back porch light is on, and Zayn has impeccable night vision—in his opinion—so it’s easy to see Liam fold himself in the space an inch or two away from where Zayn plans to eventually fall. But only once his head starts to pound in danger of popping like a tomato.

Zayn has still got twenty-seven more swings left, and Liam is oddly proportionate from an upside down perspective.

“If you swing in that thing twenty-seven more times you’re going to throw up before I can carry you to the house,” proportionate Liam says. “And thank you, I think. Is proportionate a compliment?”

 Lack of motor functions is the side effect of wine when consumed by a Malik. If he closes his eyes long enough, and magically propels himself at the right speed, he can feel Veronica’s fingers in the blades of the grass. Zayn hums as she strokes his hair.

“What do you do out here. Is it fun?” Liam interrupts his peace, but when Zayn peels his eyelids backwards, Liam is pleasant looking and soft in a pair of jeans that are obviously Andy’s. They’re tight in the thighs and long in the legs, as well as faded in a wash that Liam would never approve of in-store. “You always look like you’re having fun when I come out here. I don’t – I don’t see what’s so fascinating about a backyard.”

Zayn rolls out of his seat on the swing, and barely escapes breaking his neck. You pay the price to have the time of your life, he supposes. Winded and flushed, and looking for the bottle he left somewhere in the dark, Zayn sprawls next to Liam and his ripped jeans.

“It’s because you only come out on the fun nights.” Zayn tries to speak matter-of-factly, like Liam, but it feels funny on his tongue. Liam wouldn’t feel funny on his tongue. He never did. Zayn tries to focus on finding his wine. “Whiskey nights are horrible, I can never stop crying before Eleanor hunts me down.”

“She hunts you down?” Liam asks with an unconvinced laugh.

“It is surprisingly difficult to hide in an open backyard.” Zayn slurs a little too much, because he knows that the blanket of his accent makes Liam grin. Immediately, Zayn regrets his generosity.

Liam’s smile is bright even when the sun is gone, and it makes Zayn wince. He stomps his foot angrily in the grass for reasons he’ll never be able to explain once he’s sober, and that’s how Zayn finds his unfortunately empty bottle of knock-off Bordeaux.

“Do you regret it?”

Zayn can feel himself frown in the dark, touches his face to make sure he’s displaying the right emotions while Liam watches him openly. “Do I regret what? Drinkin’ so much? I always regret drinking.”

“No, that’s not—”

Zayn shrugs and makes an effort to understand why Liam’s lips moving while Zayn’s still trying to answer his question. Soberness can make people rude. “But somehow I still always end up drunk. I’ve done… a lot. A lot of _very stupid_ things under the influence.”

It might be possible that Zayn is one of those – the astute and pompous wine-o. Liam has said a few more sentences, but they fail to breach Zayn’s ears. He’s got a list to make. “Veronica and I had sex with the same person. Not at the same time and not on purpose, but I was drunk. And it was stupid. Drunk and stupid, that’s the checklist, right?”

He plays along nicely, Liam. Zayn watches him sigh with a set of unappreciated shoulders – Liam has a nice figure, very good shoulders – and a resigned nature that Zayn will tend to later. “Drunk and regretful, I think.”

“Drunk and regretful.” Zayn snaps his fingers. It feels necessary. “Stacey Brooks. Andrew Jenkins. And his brother Jackson. Jackson Jenkins, what a name.”

The list is long, and Zayn tries to be as specific as possible with Liam, seeing as honesty is such an important and lost trait. There’s never a time after seven o’clock when it’s not cold, and while Zayn names all the people and events that lead him to his conceptions about drunken stupidity, he tries to huddle towards the radiance of Liam’s warmth before Zayn’s nose turns blue in the wind.

“I think I get it,” Liam says with his arm wide and long around the top of Zayn’s shoulders. “You can stop now. Zayn— _really,_ Melanie Parker? She’s a nice girl. I went to school with her. Honestly, _Zayn._ ”

Zayn continues, because he’s not finished.

When Zayn isn’t busy remembering all of the reasons Liam makes him want to jump into a lake, his neck is the perfect place for Zayn to bury his face as he comes to a halt in his chronological list of people Zayn wishes he never met.

“You screw a lot of people, I get that. I’m sure I’m somewhere on the list too. I get it.” Liam laughs and Zayn doesn’t find anything funny. “Jesus, you should probably get tested. That’s—that’s a lot of people.”

“Not _you._ ”

Maybe Zayn is warm and he’d very much like to stay tucked between Liam’s nice shoulders and stubbled chin. Or maybe he doesn’t like the way Liam’s fingers curl tighter and tighter in the back of Zayn’s shirt, because he likes to piss Liam off, but Zayn doesn’t want to upset him. Any of those things can cause a lapse in judgment during Zayn’s list of horrible judgments.

Zayn is too drunk and morbidly happy to make anyone sad. He likes the way Liam’s smile makes him sick.

Drunk or not, he’s not lying and Zayn is aware of the consequences this will have should Liam wake and remember this as anything other than a strange and emotional dream.

“I never regretted you.” For now, Zayn revels in the feel of a nauseating smile stretching in the loose strands of his hair. It almost feels like grass, almost. Zayn smiles too, the wine lets him. “Not even once.”

In the morning Zayn’s memory leaves him, but it doesn’t hurt when he walks.

_***_

_Zayn can’t think of where or how this began, honestly_

_***_

What starts all of this – this predicament Zayn had fund himself in – has lost a valid starting date, given that Zayn has no clue when it first happened. Or why.

One thing Zayn can almost bet on is that it’s Harry and Eleanor’s fault.

Harry kisses _everything._ Every little thing he can get his crusty, unnourished lips on, he kisses. In his spare time – Harry makes time, if need be – when he’s not practicing law or searching the internet for foul recipes, Harry is kissing babies and fruit, and even little dogs on their little noses.

They’re in the kitchen, cooking dinner for the kids when Harry pecks the bone of Liam’s cheek; Liam fails to react in a way that pleases Zayn. When he replays it in his head later, Zayn will notice the manner in which Liam juts out his chin, like he’s _expecting_ Harry to kiss him.

And Zayn doesn’t like how he reacts to that, because jealousy over cheek kisses isn’t something he’s into, but he adds it to the list of things he hates about Harry Styles. Right along with the way he breathes and how he eats pizza _with a fork_.

Sans suit and tie, Eleanor’s only concerns are the conditions of her hair and the way her skin looks under gratuitous lighting. He’s discovered, though, that underneath all the afternoon cocktails and her divorce settlements, Eleanor’s caring in a way that makes it hard for Zayn to breathe.

She enjoys looking like a mannequin, but she also walks down to the house in the middle of the night to peel Zayn off the back patio. Her hair is long like Veronica’s, and Eleanor knows that if she never looks Zayn directly in the eye, he can pretend his sister is still tangible and caring for him even after he sealed her away in a pine box.

Eleanor drags him inside and kisses his forehead when she’s done tucking throw blankets around the perimeter of his body.

With that being said, it is only natural for Zayn to inherit the traits of those around him. When Zayn sleepily takes Naya away from Liam on Saturday morning with creases against his cheek and an untamed lick of hair pointing to the ceiling, it’s mandatory that Zayn smacks a quick kiss at the corner of one puffy eye while Liam’s still dozing.

It’s not like Liam doesn’t return the favor when Noah leaves for his first day back at school. Liam is kind enough to drive Noah early for a meeting with his headmaster, because Zayn is fighting a _ruthless_ case of the flu. Zayn hasn’t moved from the couch in twenty six hours for anything other than a bathroom break.

“Feel better,” Liam says, swooping down and pressing his mouth against the clammy skin of Zayn’s forehead. “I’ll take Naya to the bakery with me. Taylor will love to see her. Get some rest, okay? I’ll call off brunch.”

Zayn tries to keep brunch _private_ , and he doesn’t ask how Liam knows his weekly schedule because he’s too busy wanting Liam to kiss him again.

Honestly, it’s not that big of a deal. Four months ago, anyone that had witnessed the static polarity between Liam and Zayn would welcome this new development.

_***_

_In front of Achy Bakey Heart – too early for Zayn to be civil, apparently_

_***_

It’s normal for Liam to kiss the frowning corner of Zayn’s mouth when he gets out of the van. He does it because it has a vanishing effect on Zayn’s grumpy morning moods. The guy only gets up before noon on a Saturday if brunch cocktails are involved, and Liam has got to talk with Eleanor about plying Zayn full of vodka spritzers before she leaves him alone with a three year old.

Zayn shoves him out the door when Liam threatens to kiss the top of his forehead until he stops glaring at Liam’s chin.

This is all normal, it is.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with her today?” Liam leans back into the car, waving to Naya, who could care less about whatever Liam is doing. She has homemade edible Playdough, and she thinks it’s amazing. “I can make another batch if she finishes with that one early? If you wanted to go to the studio and—clothe homeless people, I’d be fine with—”

Zayn shuts him up by rolling up the window, unkindly not considering that Liam needs his head firmly attached to his neck to survive.

Liam never gets a response, just watches Zayn drive away and receives an angry text message as he’s adding cream cheese to someone’s muffin.

_starving artists r still artists dont be mean to th homeless community_

_an stop trying to crush my lifelong hope of becomin  a housewife_

Taylor tells Liam he’s smiling like an idiot. Liam doesn’t mind.

_***_

_The mailbox says Samuels-Malik-Payne, but nowhere is Styles listed_

_***_

Zayn doesn’t like chocolate frosting and wedding toppers. Both are expensive indulgences and completely irrelevant to the experience of life. People who keep ferrets as pets are also on top of his list of things that annoy him, and he doesn’t like mashed potatoes made out of cauliflower.

(Liam introduced him to the horror of mashed cauliflower, and Zayn will never forgive him. For that, or owning ferrets when he was twenty-six and emitting rodent odors onto Zayn’s sheets and pillowcases.)

Lawyers aren’t people Zayn spends a great deal of time thinking about, but he can now safely say he hates them, too.

“Why are you _always_ in the house?” Zayn catches Harry clumsily draping his coat on a row of hooks close to the front door. Mr. Styles lifts his mouth in a dopey grin and chews on the left side of his lip, shrugging. “The big kids are in school, and the baby is asleep. Sorry to disappoint.”

“It’s not good for Naya to take so many naps, did you know?” Harry wipes the sides of his mouth with ring laden fingers.

His button down is busy, and Zayn tries very hard not to roll his eyes when he hears the clunk of Harry’s heels bruise the hardwood on his way to the kitchen.

Of course he wouldn’t just leave.

Thumbing through yesterday’s mail, Zayn speaks over his shoulder. “Well I’m not waking her up so you can play peek-a-boo.”

“You don’t play peek-a-boo with three year olds,” Harry scoffs, like it’s an outrageous notion. Like Zayn didn’t see them playing it three nights ago on Naya's purple princess sheets while Harold donned a tiara.

Zayn keeps it in mind that he’s been scolded on more than one occasion for being short with Harry— _because he’s a fucking tattle-tale_ —while he sighs, putting the water bill on top of the mountain of debt starting to eat away at their savings. “Is there a reason you’re here? Did you come here to piss me off, ‘s that it? ‘Cause Jeopardy is about to start so I’m not in the mood.”

He’ll be damned if Harry doesn’t resemble the yapping lapdog at the end of the street with his head tilted the way it is, crooked and confused. “Liam says you don’t like me.”

This is not exactly information Zayn was aware he was hiding. “Liam is a very smart man on days that don’t end in y.”

Harry snaps and nods at the same time, pursing his lips in amusement at the same time Zayn mentally tries to deduce the chances of Harry’s man-bun being sordidly greasy or healthily shiny. “That’s _funny_ because _all days_ end in y. And what you’re _really_ trying to say is Liam _is not_ —”

“I know no one has made this clear to you, but you shouldn’t have to explain jokes.” Zayn touches two fingers to his forehead, afraid that he can feel the headache sprouting somewhere underneath his skin. “At least not the funny ones.”

In the terribly long months that Zayn has been enlightened to his existence, Harry has never proved to be an overtly emotional human being. He makes terrible puns and bounces babies on his knee, and Zayn tries to pay as little attention to him as he possibly can. They’ve made a place for him in their lives—and a shelf for his American dishes in their refrigerator—but not once has Harry shed a tear where Zayn could see.

Crying isn’t on the table _now_ , but Harry does look crestfallen. It’s not fair how Harry’s quick frown makes Zayn feel like a _fucking dick_ , but it does. Immediately, Zayn wants to erase the upset purse of Harry’s lips from his stupidly long face.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I really am just trying to help you guys out, Zayn.” It’s evident that Harry doesn’t know what to do with his hands when he doesn’t have an oversized coat resting on the tops of his shoes. Zayn can see it in how he flails his limbs nervously around his waist. “Andy and I—we didn’t really hang out a lot. Not like Liam and I do. I met Naomi twice, maybe. But Noah was always pleasant when Veronica invited the neighborhood over for dinner. He’s the only one that ever tries the dishes I bring.”

“Sweet mashed potatoes with marshmallows are disgusting, everyone thinks so.” Zayn snaps at Harry, hoping it disguises the lump in Zayn’s throat because what Harry’s describing is everything Zayn misses about his family. “Keep going if you’re getting to a point, Styles.”

Scuffing those damn heels on Zayn’s floor, Harry keeps his eyes on the ground for a moment and Zayn doesn’t mind the window of privacy. “Point is, that life is too short not to know your neighbors.”

“I know plenty of my neighbors,” Zayn defends.

“Mixing Bloody Mary’s before ten in the morning with Andrew Cutter and Cindy Lawrence doesn’t mean you know them at all.” Harry raises an eyebrow at Zayn when his eyes wander to the muted television behind his guest’s uncomfortably large head. “It means you all might have a drinking problem.”

“Sounds like someone feels left out.” Zayn holds out an olive branch in the form of a smile, not willing to hate Harry forever – it’s counterproductive and exhausting.

Brows knit tightly, Harry presses his flat lips into a straight line. “I think that’s why Noah and I get on so well.”

His carefully confused words graze a snagged nerve ending at the right of Zayn’s chest, jumpstarting an eruption of coughs that do nothing to hide Zayn’s discomfort with the truth. “Noah thinks we don’t include him? I—we _try_. We’ve _been_ trying.”

“We only talk about Monopoly pieces and American sitcoms; I don’t know how he really feels. Was just a guess, that’s all.”

“We’ll have to try harder,” Zayn announces, shaking the watch on his wrist until the face is maneuvered where he can read it. “Look, my show comes on in about five minutes—”

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Harry holds his hands up in understanding. Zayn does a very good job of withholding his questions about the glitter confetti on upheld palms. “I can leave. I know when to take a hint; Eleanor taught me that.”

She did a shit job, Zayn wants to say, but he doesn’t have time to discuss Harry’s inability to read situations. He doesn’t want to miss Alex read the categories. “No. You can stay… if you want.”

“Really? Can I—”

“Don’t _push it_ , and don’t breathe too loudly. If you smack your lips at me _once_ —don’t argue, I’ve seen you do it a thousand times—I’m kicking you out, and you’re not allowed to come back without adult supervision.”

“I _am_ an adult.”

Zayn moves past Harry and secures the baby monitor on his hip. “You keep telling yourself that.”

_***_

_The Samuels’-Malik-Payne house – the kitchen, **again**_

_***_

“Liam says,” Naomi starts out, landing on the counter behind Zayn while he makes their secret lunches. Liam made lamb, and Zayn is trying to save them all with turkey sandwiches and Swiss cheese. She kicks him when Zayn doesn’t immediately pay attention. “Hey, can you hear me?”

Setting his utensil beside him, Zayn faces her with folded arms. “Sorry, wasn’t trying to lose a limb.”

“It’s a butter knife.”

Not liking this teenager thing, where they roll their eyes all the stinking time, Zayn nudges Naomi to continue. “I’m listening, brat.”

He flicks the end of her nose until she smiles, because Zayn only thinks she’s a brat sometimes. “ _Liam_ _says_ that _Noah said_ , that _Harry said_ you invited him over for dinner on Thursday night.”

Bleeping tattle-tale, that Harry Styles. “I figured he was going to be here anyway…”

His niece has got his number and she knows it. “There’s also a rumor you let him stay to watch Jeopardy.”

Zayn doesn’t have time to be interrogated by miniature adults, and he tells her this while he finishes the task she interrupted. “I was watching Jeopardy and he happened to be in the house. Like he _always_ is. Purely coincidental.”

He hopes she’ll take the hint and go away, but Zayn isn’t going to risk holding his breath.

Liam is in the front yard; Zayn can see him from the window above the sink, rolling around in the grass like the neighbor’s German Sheppard two houses down. Something otherworldly happens to Liam when the sun breaks through the clouds that always seem to be hanging over their heads. His jogs last longer, and he always smells like a lawnmower when it’s a shade lighter than grey outside.

Zayn doesn’t know what it means, or what overtakes Liam when he tilts his head into the sunshine, but it looks good on him.

Mimi hums behind him, and the accusatory tone brings Zayn’s attention back into the house. “Mhm,” she goads, smiling at Zayn suspiciously before stealing a turkey sandwich from his growing pile. “There may be hope for you yet, uncle Zayn. There may be hope for you yet.”

“Please stop talking like we’re in a night time sitcom, or like you’re thirty. I’m thirty, and I don’t talk like that.” Mimi tries to take another turkey masterpiece for her troubles, but Zayn guards them with more ferocity than he’s proud of. “The next snack you steal comes out of your pocket, missy.”

He tries to call Harry and cancel, but Liam hides his phone until Zayn stops bitching about the sanctity of Alex Trebek.

_***_

_Zayn has seriously never spent this much time in a kitchen before now_

_***_

Adaptation isn’t a new concept to Zayn. There’s no achievable way to count all the foster homes he jumped from on two hands. His hair has been tapered and faded, and unfortunately there was a time in his teens where Zayn was the victim of several colored streaks and a coifed look. It’s no small secret either, that Zayn changes partners as often as he does his sheets.

Twice a week, at least – Zayn may be scandalous, but he’s not unsanitary.

So a fresh coat of paint in the hallway fails to faze him, and the new throw blankets are nothing compared to the absence of pictures on the mantle. It’s hard for each of them to look at these things on a daily basis and not fall to their knees, so Liam and Zayn have taken the liberty of easing some of the painful memories out of the house and into the garage.

Nothing goes in the trash, no matter how many times Noah tries to sneak boxes of Andy’s t-shirts into the bin when he thinks Zayn is sleeping. His nephew fights nostalgia with angry fits of destruction.

Zayn can do all of those things, he takes them in stride and brings Liam boxes of tissues from the supply closet to wipe the snot from the end of his nose. Because unlike Zayn, Liam doesn’t understand change, it makes him shift too much in his skin.

Zayn refuses to tell Liam that he’ll get used to not seeing Andy when he opens the front door. It’s untrue, and Liam deserves to know some loss is a bruise that never heals.

And now – after all the time he spent swearing he didn’t care about Liam’s tears – Zayn can’t bring himself to bear Liam anything he can’t handle. The thought of him sniffling on his designated couch in the middle of the night… it does things to Zayn. To his _feelings_.

He drinks more than planned when Liam’s having a bad day, if not to dislodge the knot of remorse from his throat.

All of _this_ is doable.

But he has the hardest time admitting defeat to the coffee machine.

The hardest fucking time.

“I think it’s time to toss this one out,” Liam says, with his dumb long fingers gripping a fresh, warm cup that he salvaged before the piece of shit sputtered on Zayn. He scowls in Liam’s direction and slams his palm on top of the damn thing for good measure. “It’s not a big deal, Zayn. I can get one on my way home tonight.”

It’s _not_ okay, though. It’s not okay, seeing as this machine was Andy’s favorite thing in the whole world –besides his wife, kids, and idiot best friend. Zayn doesn’t give a shit if this things makes it or not, but it’s important to Liam for some coffee-related reason that makes sense to absolutely no one else.

Zayn can interchange the pillows until they don’t smell like Veronica’s perfume, but the coffee maker is a staple that gives Liam this goofy, reminiscent grin.

He can’t piece together the equation that puts Liam’s feelings at the top of Zayn’s priority list, but it’s up there and Zayn isn’t giving up on this damn coffee maker. They’ve already run out of enough reasons to smile.

If this crapshoot would just cooperate, Zayn could go about his day just fine.

“It’s sweet what you’re doing,” Liam says with his coffee-warm hands in places they shouldn’t be: innocently trailing on the tops of Zayn’s arms, halting his irritated movements with subtle stokes of Liam’s fingers. “But I can live without the coffee machine. It’s not near as hard as living without Andy. It’s okay if you can’t fix it.”

He squeezes Zayn’s arms and hugs him with the heat of his body. Zayn wants to scream until his throat is bleeding, because never wants to move, ever.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he whispers, reduced to hoarse murmurings while Liam pries the machinery from Zayn’s hands. He’s always taller than Zayn remembers when he’s not on his knees, or his back, or in Zayn’s bed. Zayn coughs to stop his fingers from shaking. “I just wanted to drink something other than _grape juice_ for once.”

“I have some left in my cup.”

Liam ducks to print the heated outline of his lips into the hinge of Zayn’s jaw, and he laughs like it’s friendly. Like he has no clue that Zayn’s eyes fall closed while melts into the brace of Liam’s arms.

Zayn doesn’t speak for fear of giving away the thunder inside his chest when he opens his mouth – afraid of the echoes the thumps will make.

“Unless there’s _something else_ you wanted—”

“Are you two being all _in love_ again?”

Liam drops his hands, and Zayn applauds himself for staying upright while he shifts his weight forward with the burn of Liam’s fingers on his person. There’s an ache there when he’s gone, and Zayn hates that it’s too early in the morning to wash it away with a stashed bottle of tinted whiskey underneath the kitchen sink.

“’Cause if you are, we can go.”

Naomi stands there with her fists on her hips, dubiously regarding them until Liam starts to speak. “ _We weren’t_ —we aren’t. What do you want, Naomi?”

The flush blooming at the tops of his round cheeks reminds Zayn of something he’s not comfortable remembering in the presence of children.

Noah stands beside his sister, rolling his eyes at the two of them until Zayn has time to clear his throat and look in the opposite direction of Liam’s guilty, red face. “I have to ask you guys a question.”

“And if you say yes to Noah’s question, then _I_ have a question.”

Mimi’s maniacal mirage of innocence makes Liam frown, and Zayn refuses to acknowledge the pout of his lower lip as cute. Or adorable. They’re both out of the question. A pout is a pout, end of silent discussion.

“I’m not spending the weekend with Miriam and Jessica, Naomi.” Noah’s the most animated he’s been in weeks, rolling his eyes in a way that doesn’t make Zayn want to bury his head in a pile of sand. Mimi groans with intensified exasperation, and Noah blanches. “They both have a crush on me, and it’s annoying.”

“You think all my friends have a crush on you, Noah.”

“All of them do!” Noah looks to Liam, who has backed himself away from the clearly unstable pair of teenagers they’ve been saddled with, and is standing about as close to Zayn as he was before they tugged themselves on opposite sides of the kitchen. “Uncle Liam, tell her I’m right. Jessica is _the worst_. Don’t make me spend the weekend with her.”

Liam opens his mouth to tell Noah that he’s not wrong, but Zayn halts his progression of speech before he can stick himself in the middle of an argument that’s void of a right side.

“Don’t drag Liam into this,” Zayn says, spreading his fingers over the width of Liam’s shoulder. “Tell us what you want first. Why is Jessica going to spend the weekend with us?”

“Noah wants his friends to come over for the weekend—”

“Noah has friends?” Zayn’s confused, and Liam’s starting to flex underneath his hand.

“ _Zayn,_ ” Liam chokes out. For the record, Noah doesn’t look offended. The boy in question tilts his head and shrugs in a _touché_ manner while Liam pretends to be scandalized. _Like he wasn’t thinking the same thing._ “Don’t be rude, of course Noah has friends.”

It’s insanely difficult to concentrate on the idea of _more teenagers_ in their house with Liam writhing minutely under the span of Zayn’s four still fingers and caressing thumb. He detaches himself easily, hoisting his weight onto the counter, his knee still connected to the line of Liam’s back.

Because can they ever really break the bind between them?

“I’m just saying.” Rubbing the end of his chin and swaying the foot that’s not aligned with the warmth of Liam’s body, Zayn looks at his niece and nephew. “He’s punched _a lot_ of people in the face.”

“He’s not wrong,” Noah admits.

Naomi and Liam are either the remaining sane ones, or the last ones left in denial. Both of them have the same outraged expression to Zayn and Noah’s indifference. Liam throws his body backwards, probably hoping to inflict pain, but only ends up wrangled in the space between Zayn’s thighs.

“Would you get your hands off of me, Zayn. Can you behave like an adult for five minutes. I’m not wrestling with you.”

“I would win.”

“You would _lose,_ ” Liam guarantees counterproductively, pliant and pleasant where Zayn touches him. Platonically. As friends. “You would lose _so bad._ ”

Zayn throws his arms casually, and carefully, around Liam’s neck while he prattles on about how insensitive Zayn is being to Noah’s predicament, while simultaneously encouraging his violent behavior by threatening to strangle Zayn. He’s got a solid three inches on Liam from where he’s sitting, and Zayn can’t help if his features default into a look of fondness.

There’s a space above Liam’s eyebrow that fails to wrinkle in his disappointed spiel, and Zayn rewards it with a cheeky, sloppy kiss that silences Liam and brings him farther into his space while their audience makes puking noises.

“Can we have friends over, or not?” Noah manages around his faux hacking noises. Zayn presses his lips to the side of Liam’s head, then his ear, just to make his nephew scrunch his nose. It’s valid reasoning. “Actually, if you guys are going to be like this when they come over, I’d rather reschedule.”

“Not me, I don’t care. I want Jessica to come over.”

“ _Please,_ ” Noah begs. “Please don’t let Jessica come over. Anyone but Jessica.”

“You’re so dramatic.” Zayn tightens his legs around Liam’s middle for good measure. There’s a ticklish spot just underneath his chin that would fill the room with that stupid, infectious laughter that Zayn swears he hates. He ignores it for now, but it isn’t easy. “Joke’s on you, because I’m not babysitting mini-adults all weekend.”

Bratty has lately been Naomi’s fortitude. “Um, we don’t want you guys here, anyway. We thought you could stay upstairs while we use the living rooms.”

Liam has to crane his neck to look at Zayn incredulously. “Yeah, that isn’t gonna happen. Why can’t you just stay in your rooms?”

“Our rooms are too small for three people.”

Zayn lived in apartments smaller that Noah’s bedroom. He tells them that and feels Liam squeezing his thighs to calm him down. Safely, Zayn can say that Liam’s intentions don’t match the outcome. “One guest at a time, decide amongst yourselves who gets to have company this weekend.”

Noah and his sister argue amongst themselves while Zayn speaks very low in Liam’s ear, voice caught in a gargle at the bottom on his throat. “Unless you plan on jacking me off with our kids in the room, I suggest you stop moving your fucking hands that close to my dick.”

Liam only answers his suggestion with a final squeeze to the inseam of Zayn’s sweats before he holds his hands steadily in front of him. Zayn is otherwise ignored. It shouldn’t irritate him as much as it does. “How about this,” Liam proposes, and everyone stays quiet. “You both pick one person to come over. It can’t be Jessica—”

“Ha!” Noah boasts, and Naomi sighs.

“Or Matthew,” Zayn adds, because it’s fair, and Matthew is little fucking punk. “I’m not sleeping with Matthew Albert under the same roof as me.”

Noah mumbles something under his breath that Zayn is sure would make him want to serve his angsty, teenage butt broccoli and rice for the rest of the month. He lets it slide.

“We’ll call in reinforcements, so you guys don’t have to have your co-guardians breathing down your neck.” Liam says, speaking for the first time with his hands winding behind him to cover a space on Zayn’s thighs. Again. Zayn tries not to choke on his own tongue, because Liam’s a little shit. “Taylor can hang out with the girls in the front living room. And Harry can hang out with the guys in the back living room.”

Dammit, _dammit_. Zayn should have made Harry his veto. He pinches Liam’s shoulder for distracting him and making this weekend at least three times worse with Harry Styles supervising teenagers.

“Where are you guys going to sleep?”

“Are you kidding me?” There’s a coffee machine that requires Zayn’s immediate attention. He’d really like to sustain himself with proper amounts of caffeine for the rest of this already downhill day. “With all of you running loose, and Harry and Taylor providing you with entertainment? I’m not closing my eyes for two seconds.”

“I like Taylor,” Naomi says, while Noah continues to test Zayn’s patience. “I don’t need a supervisor, I’m _fifteen_.”

A throb in the back of his head reminds Zayn that locking children in a basement is against the law. Liam speaks on their collective behalf. “No supervisors, no friends.”

“I guess Harry will be fine.”

Zayn kicks Liam’s shins with the back of his feet until he gives Zayn enough room to hop off the counter top. “And for shits and giggles—because if I have to spend a weekend in hell, someone else does, too. Eleanor can watch Naya, that way you guys can be as loud as you want. And no one can hear me scream when I jump off the roof around midnight.”

“Talk about dramatic, Uncle Zayn.” A huff erupts from Noah’s throat, but it’s softer than the day before. And every long, torturous day before that.

Zayn can recognize progress when he sees it. He counts it as a win this time.

“Hey, where _is_ Naya?”

Mimi opens the refrigerator door, calmly explaining her sister’s absence while she hordes a bowl of grapes for herself. “She’s in the living room watching Buffy. She thinks the vampires are funny.”

“You left her in the living room by herself?” Liam’s already stomping away, and Noah follows behind him, leaving Zayn alone with his niece. “She can’t watch _Buffy,_ it’ll give her nightmares, dude.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t notice sooner, really. Maybe you’re the one who needs a supervisor, Uncle Zayn.”

Naomi squeals when Zayn messes up her hair and steals a handful of her purple grapes. “You better be nice to me, or I’ll let Liam make your snacks for your sleepover.”

She spends the rest of the morning begging Zayn to convince Liam not to make mushroom pizza bites.

_***_

_The Samuels’-Malik-Payne house – also known tonight as **hell**_

_***_

“Don’t let her put her thumb in her mouth,” Liam warns Eleanor, kissing the curl pressed into the crown of Naya’s head. “She’s going to throw a right fit, but I’d rather her be cranky than have bad teeth.”

“You’d be surprised how much I know about children,” Eleanor is gentle about settling Naya into her arms, smoothly tossing her diaper bag over her left shoulder. “Being a child care worker, and all.”

Liam’s too worried about Naya being away from her home for a night to be bothered by Eleanor’s predictable sarcasm.

“She’s going to be fine,” Zayn says, ushering Jessica towards the kitchen for more cookies, and away from the boy’s living room. In spite of his throwaway nonchalance, Liam identifies the lines around Zayn’s smile as ones of fret. “Can you please make sure Carl and Andrew aren’t trying to give Harry another wedgie again? It’s impossible to get his underwear back into his jeans after they’ve been stretched out.”

It’s only in Liam’s power to shrug. “Taylor warned him about the knock-knock jokes.”

“I thought the kids were only supposed to have one guest for each of them?”

Zayn shoos Jessica out of the foyer and warns her away from Noah, Andrew, and Carl’s designated area. Liam and Zayn have only been hosts for three hours, and two people have already cried. Both of them were adults, but that’s not pertinent to the point.

“Funny how teenagers work,” Zayn sighs, leaning heavily on Liam’s shoulder and reaching out to tickle the bottom of Naya’s socked feet. “Limitations only make them _rebellious._ ”

Eleanor glares at Liam when he spends a second too long criticizing her lax hold on Naya. Liam coughs around an apology and only fusses with Naya’s coat for two seconds. Zayn grabs his hand, probably for his own safety, but he doesn’t hold it long enough for Liam’s liking.

Not that, uh, Liam _wants_ Zayn to hold his hand. _He’s not_ —that’s not what he wants.

He watches Eleanor’s eyes dart to Liam’s tensing fingers, and he’s forced to list Naya’s allergies for the third time in order to redirect her attention.

“Liam, she’s already half-way asleep.” Eleanor’s not easily fooled, and she stares directly at Zayn’s fingers tugging the bottom of Liam’s sleep shirt until Liam feels like he has something to hide. He doesn’t, but Eleanor’s astutely manipulative in that way. “But if she wakes up in the middle of the night for a snack, I’ll go over the printed list of allergies you gave me before I feed her a peanut butter cup.”

“You don’t have to get snooty, I just—”

“You’re just being a good parent, I know.” Eleanor rests a steady hand over the eve of Liam’s cheek, tapping his face too hard to be labeled a tap. He tries to mask his shock and perplexity with a look of thanks. “And don’t say snooty. It makes you sound snooty.”

“Noted.”

Generally speaking, Liam fails to see anything other than pinched impatience and auburn hair when he looks at Eleanor, where Zayn spots hidden character and unmatched charisma. Liam can presently say he’s a believer.

They share a moment, and Zayn tugs at Liam’s elbow when something in the front room crashes as it hits the floor. “Hate to cut this—whatever this is, bonding? I guess. Really don’t want to cut it short but we have to chaperone our chaperones.”

For as harried as Zayn pretends not to be, Liam has watched him zip between both living rooms at a speed he usually reserves for – actually, Liam’s never seen Zayn move his legs as fast as he has tonight.

Save for his rushed and quiet walk of shame out of Liam’s apartment, and probably half of the apartments in Liam’s complex.

“Well we’ve got a hot date with some Disney DVD’s.” Eleanor opens the door herself, shielding Naya from any more of Liam or Zayn’s overprotective kisses. She winks – Eleanor, not the baby. “I won them in my divorce. My ex-husband is strangely obsessed with Peter Pan.”

“I’ve got to meet your ex.” Taylor does some drive-by commentating, dancing around them with a dustpan full of vase pieces. She shrugs with a spoonful of ice cream in her mouth when Zayn demands an explanation. “Things got a little crazy with Dance Revolution, what can I say? See ya around, Eleanor!”

Liam tries to remember when Taylor even met Eleanor.

Zayn hurries after her, and then turns around to head towards the sounds of distress coming from the back living room. Eleanor’s letting cold air in staring after Taylor in her pajama shorts and striped socks.

Liam knows that look from… somewhere.

 _The mirror, probably,_ his brain supplies. Liam ignores anything his subconscious tries to tell him.

“I want _her_ to my ex-girlfriend,” Eleanor groans with an open mouth and slack jaw.

Liam doesn’t even know what that _means_.

He shuts the door and turns around in time to see Taylor coming back from the kitchen, spoon still in her mouth, hips still moving to the beat of a song that Liam can unfortunately _feel_ thundering in the soles of his feet.

“Hey, do you know if Eleanor’s single?”

And really, Liam doesn’t know why he expected the children to present the most troublesome behavior tonight.

He doesn’t answer—because Liam truly doesn’t know anything concerning Eleanor’s relationship status—and after Taylor giggles twice at his furrowed eyebrows, Liam abandons her to corral the small pre-teen trying to slip away down the hall.

“Jessica, you know you’re not supposed to go in there. Noah is _too old_ for you, honey.”

_***_

_Hell – in the hallway_

_***_

After being sent away wielding a tray of delicious, and equally nutritious mushroom pizza poppers, Liam resigns himself to the hallway where Zayn’s been parked for nearly an hour.

He situates a crooked picture frame and smiles back at Andy’s smiling face before he folds his legs underneath himself and runs a tired hand through his hair. He could really use a cut soon, before the length of his hair rivals Zayn’s.

Zayn doesn’t move when Liam sits beside him. He shakes his phone a bit, because the connection downstairs is atrocious, but otherwise Zayn’s still and aggravated.

His thigh touches Liam’s knee, and both of them act unaware of the static that runs between the friction of movement.

“How many times are you going to try to Facetime her?” Liam asks, after watching Zayn end the call, only to start it again seconds later. “Is that all you’ve been doing while I’m trying not to get my head cut off by your niece and nephew? Video chatting our babysitter?”

“I’m gonna call her as many times as it takes her to fucking answer.”

Zayn’s face is red and agonized, and Liam doesn’t know why he’s reaching out to wipe away blue icing from his chin because it’s so close to his lips. Zayn’s pink, pouting lip. That Liam hasn’t kissed in – a long time.

Why does Liam want to kiss Zayn? Why does he want to touch him at all? Why does he want Zayn to hold his hand? Why is Liam so stupid?

Why is Zayn so exhaustibly beautiful?

Evidently his fingers shaking so close to Zayn’s mouth distresses Liam more so than Zayn, as his lack of reaction would suggest. 

“What am I _doing?_ ” Zayn prompts himself once Liam’s hands are safely tucked underneath his thighs with blue icing stained in the beds of his fingernails. He looks at Liam helplessly with an outraged and offended cry. Liam holds off a laugh with the bite of his lip and is abruptly reminded why Zayn makes him lose all sense of logic. “I’m not the needy one, Liam. I’m the _chill_ one. These kids are fucking with _my head,_ man.”

“’s just cause it’s the first time you’ve had to care about someone.” There’s a place in his mind where that sounded better than Liam articulated it, but it doesn’t feel untrue once it’s floating in the air between them. “Without being, um. Without being forced to care. Its strange loving someone that much, but you’ll get used to it, Zayn. Promise.”

Zayn rebuffs his answer with open-mouthed gaping while Liam makes an effort to remember the first time he tried to fall in love with Zayn. After the sex, and before he left Liam alone in his bed. Shoved somewhere between all of those moments is Liam’s insanity.

Liam laughs at himself now, and lets Zayn’s currently confused face distract him from those moments barring clarity.

“I’ve cared about people before.” Zayn gestures languidly to the noise coming from both ends of the house, and Liam regrets whatever he said to force Zayn’s mouth into such a deep frown. “I cared for them before Andy and V fucking bit it. I’ve always cared for my nieces, and my nephew.”

“I mean _full time_ caring.”

Being an uncle is easier than being directly responsible for someone’s wellbeing. Liam has a feeling they’re not talking about being guardians, though. Not with Zayn’s eyes darkening with each blink. With his hands curled into fists, and his lips pursed with determination to change Liam’s mind.

“They’re the only thing you think about, the only ones you worry about. They’re your main focus. You don’t think of anything else.”

“And how do you know I’ve never cared about anyone like that before?” A challenge lies somewhere in the curl of Zayn’s mouth.

Liam refuses to fall for the bait Zayn’s speared at the end of his hook. He’s spent enough time over the last decade falling for Zayn’s lines.

He swallows, cursing his voice for sounding hollow and unsure. “Because I know you.”

Pained, Zayn shakes his head. “Obviously you don’t.”

Liam isn’t left with a vast amount of time to wonder why Zayn is so wounded, or why Liam is so troubled that he is. Eleanor’s face pops up on Zayn’s screen, and he excuses himself to a quieter area of the house – away from Liam. Only after he smoothes the hair from Liam’s forehead, and kisses the tired tilt of his eyebrow in what feels like an apology.

“I’ve got to take this,” Zayn mumbles, the vibration of his vocal chords carrying from his throat to his lips, and right to Liam’s face, disappearing somewhere in the skip of his heartbeat. “I can’t believe…” Zayn trails off with a tired shake of his head. “We’ll finish this later, right? Later.”

“Later.” Liam repeats as Zayn departs to the kitchen, screaming invasive questions at Eleanor to be heard over Harry and Andrew’s impromptu karaoke session.

After Zayn’s gone, and Liam’s sure no one is around to see him touch the corner of his eyebrow and try to send the wicked burning sensation left behind to his lips, he sighs.

“Later.”

Before he’s caught and dragged off to help complete makeovers with the girls, Liam is stuck in his spot along the hallway, trying to discern when later might be, what exactly he and Zayn have to finish discussing, and when the Zayn he _knows_ became someone he _knew_.

He’ll have to think about it later.

_***_

_Still in hell – once again in the hallway_

_***_

“Your braids look horrible.” Zayn pokes his finger around the mess of Liam’s hair, straining to reach his head from his resting spot on Liam’s stomach. His skull falls into the concaved crosshatch of Liam’s ribs when he breathes. “You should have let Harry braid your hair, not Naomi. Harry did my hair.”

“It looks just as ridiculous,” Liam says without opening his eyes, craning his skull to the left so Zayn doesn’t have to wiggle so much to tease his hair.

“It does not.”

The floor around them is littered with yellow and pink streamers that Zayn doesn’t remember purchasing, or pulling out of the supply closet. If Zayn strains hard enough, he can peek at the bodies slumped across the main living room floor visible only by the green, shadowed light of a cloudy, early morning outside.

The boys managed to fall asleep in the kitchen mid-brownie session, and there’s batter on the ceiling that Liam has been elected to clean once either of them can move for longer than twenty-eight seconds without passing out.

For now, they’re made-over and exhausted. Zayn has mascara on his cheek, but not his eyelashes. Liam’s still got one red heel on his left foot. And the both of them have an assortment of braids coming from their skulls.

Zayn yanks at the end of a mangled strand, laughing when Liam reaches down to palm Zayn’s face in frustration. They’re both chuffing, Zayn with delirious exhaustion and Liam with satisfied annoyance. His stupidly big hand squashes Zayn nose and mouth for a few seconds longer.

Zayn thinks about licking the ends of Liam’s fingers before he decides it would be weird instead of petty. Liam’s never kept long nails, but they feel good where they rest in Zayn’s hair. He tries not to purr when Liam scratches at his scalp, but it’s useless and Liam’s shoulder blades are bouncing up and down on the hardwood and he chokes out a laugh that shifts his – and Zayn’s – body.

Zayn slaps his hands away and resumes his task of pulling Liam’s braids, and Liam politely lays his arms on his sides, sprawling out further on the floor. 

“It’s a great excuse to get that haircut you should’ve got ages ago,” Zayn says at the same time Liam suggests they move to the guest bedroom to get some sleep that doesn’t kill their backs in the morning. Zayn ignores him. “How long have you been growing your hair out? Is it some sort of barber strike? I’m pretty good with a pair of scissors.”

“Just don’t want a cut is all.” Liam’s eyelashes are still inky and clumped at the top of his cheeks. Zayn watches his mouth move around a piece of grey sky that’s slipped through the curtains near the door. “How are you this chatty at this hour? Let’s be off to bed.”

He’s sure somewhere hidden underneath the fatigue laid the questions that have been in Liam’s eyes all night long. Zayn shouldn’t push it, or try to remind him that they have to talk about Liam thinking Zayn doesn’t care about anyone other than himself.

But right now Liam’s concealing a different secret illuminated by the purse of his mouth, and it has something to do with his shaggy hair. And Zayn is bored. “You don’t trust me to cut your hair?”

“I don’t trust you to wash my socks.”

Zayn scoffs, sitting up and immediately regretting his lack of consideration for gravity. His brain feels like it’s trying to be tugged to the center of the Earth. “I accidentally turned a few socks green—”

“ _A few?_ ” Liam opens one eye to glare at Zayn behind a smile that he couldn’t miss if he tried. “It was every sock that I have. And you turned them all lime green. I don’t even— _how_ did you do that?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Zayn admits, standing. Slower this time, he gets to his feet and holds out a hand for Liam, who only takes it when Zayn kicks him in the side to garner his attention. “C’mon, I’m fucking tired, and I think I have a banana chip in my underwear.”

Liam mumbles something that sounds like _okay,_ and he struggles to stand on one socked foot with the other jammed into a stiletto. Zayn’s unsure why he doesn’t just kick it off, but he says nothing as he helps Liam hobble down the hallway with a _clack, clack, clack_.

Not unlike a deer on new legs, Liam is unsteady. Zayn keeps an arm around his waist until they’re opening the guest room and pouring themselves onto the mattress. Dust chalks up his nostrils and the comforter is scratchy, but there’s a window about the headboard that floods the room with pale light that looks amazing across the bridge of Liam’s nose.

For the first time in months, Zayn wants to pick up a paintbrush.

“Tell me why you don’t want to cut your hair,” Zayn persists, sitting up and tugging Liam’s calf into his lap. Underneath his fingers, Liam freezes as Zayn’s fingers dance down to his ankle, rolling his foot until Taylor’s heel pops off. “I just did you a favor, so you have to tell me.”

Liam tries to protest mid-yawn, and Zayn’s never been more awake in his life now. The petal-pink of Liam’s fleshy lip begs to be captured on film. But the only lens that can document it is the one in his brain. Sadly Zayn knows he’ll never do it justice once he closes his eyes and opens them again.

“There’s not a specific reason,” Liam says into his arm, wiggling his foot in Zayn’s lap and stretching out his toes. “I like my hair long.”

“You hate your hair long.”

Sometimes they forget, each of them. That they’ve known each other for longer than a decade. Zayn forgets that Liam knows how he likes his eggs in the morning, and Liam can’t remember telling Zayn that he hates how curly his hair gets when it’s more than a few inches long.

Zayn prefers hair that can be pulled, but he’s not the one that has to deal with frizzy Fridays and unmanageable Mondays.

“Noah wants to go to the barber with me when I get my hair cut.” Liam untangles himself from Zayn’s hands and scoots toward the top of the bed, unknowingly pulling Zayn with him by the invisible tether they’re each got sunk into their throats. “His hair was V’s favorite thing. She loved it so much and it—it feels wrong to let him cut it.”

Little and ashamed, and a bit annoyed at Zayn, Liam rubs his eyes and starts undoing the knots in his hair.

Zayn opens and closes his mouth until the right words form on his tongue. “That’s so fucking—” Liam looks up at him, daring him to be cruel. Zayn shakes his head and sits shoulder to shoulder with Liam. “Sweet. That’s really fucking sweet, Liam.”

“Andy used to beg me into talking her into getting Noah a haircut.” Liam’s hacking at his hair, and Zayn takes over before he damages it anymore than Naomi and Taylor already have. “It was something so stupid to me. His hair was past his shoulders and he was four. He could have used a couple inches off.”

They don’t do this sober; talk. Liam waits until Zayn has drowned himself in something strong and toxic to pull his memories from where he keeps them close to his chest. Zayn is careful not to jostle Liam while he unwinds the matted strands of his hair.

Zayn loves hearing about his sister from other sources besides the voices and reels in his head.

“Then I saw the way Noah would—he would get upset and cry into V’s hair. Just tuck his little head into her shoulder and cry. He would play with her bangs when he was telling her about his day.” Liam continues, and Zayn crowds farther into Liam’s space, knees jammed near Liam’s thighs while they both cough back dry tears. “She just really loved his hair, ‘s what I thought. Then… and then you started coming around. Annoying as you were, she loved you. Her hands were never a centimeter away from your hair.”

Zayn hits him on the shoulder and almost hiccups a sob when Liam holds onto his hand, spanning his fingers and slotting them into the empty spaces Zayn never knew he needed filled until Liam laughs at himself and lets go.

Zayn pretends not to feel defeated when he returns to Liam’s braids.

“You came back from some dumb art show—don’t hit me. They were pictures of _fruit_ , me and Andy looked up the website.” Liam tilts his neck, and Zayn counts to ten because it’s more productive than kissing the pulse behind Liam’s ear. “Are you listening to me?”

“I’m trying not to kiss you.”

Hair krimped from the patterns of the twists, Liam pauses to look at Zayn, messing up his already warped line of thought. “You want to kiss me?”

“I don’t think it would be a good idea, and I really want to hear the rest of your story.” Resting back on his haunches and failing to comb a hand through his own tangled mop of hair, Zayn’s shoulders sag under the personal revelation. “But I do want to kiss you. Or paint you.”

Smirk riding up one side of his face, Liam chuckles. “Paint me?”

Zayn’s not easily embarrassed, but Liam’s scrutiny does leave his cheeks warm. “This room has good lighting.” Liam fusses with his braids again, since Zayn is entirely too preoccupied by the shape of Liam’s lips to do anything more useful than stare. “Have to make use of it while I’ve got you here. ‘s not every day we’re sharing a bed at six in the morning.”

“Only because you always make me leave before you wake up,” Liam says, not bitter at all, fingers still in his hair and not underneath Zayn’s shirt. Lips still darkened by dusty shadows. “That’s your call, not mine.”

Edging closer, Zayn wets his lip with a thoughtful swipe of his tongue. “Maybe I should let you stay next time.”

“You plan on there being a next time?”

Zayn’s eyes follow a nervous gulp down the knots of Liam’s throat. “You don’t?”

“Then kiss me.” It sounds so simple and standard when Liam says it, dismissive of their feelings and frets. Petulant and unsurprising, Liam holds his hands in his lap and tucks his knees into his chest. Closing himself off, but asking to be exposed. “If you want to paint me, you have to kiss me.

Liam’s taking up a minimal amount of space, knees together and bare feet squirming continuously against the pattern of the comforter. The sun fighting through the blinds makes his hair look like sand, brightening the tips of his ears and the rose of his open mouth.

Sleepy, unkempt, and fidgety—Zayn cannot honestly recall a time Liam has appeared more kissable.

Moving slowly, Zayn presses an innocent kiss to Liam’s mouth, the corner where his grin slopes into a pout. He misses his chance to see Liam’s eyes go wide when the wings of his light lashes land loftily at the sunken curves underneath his eyes.

Zayn wants to chase the tired hue away with the ends of his thumbs, and it’s startling how that blossoms something under the rocks in his chest.

It’s been too long; too long since they’ve aligned like this. A hair close to never that they’ve been this gentle and sincere when they’re not plied with honest absinthe and voids of darkness at their backs. They allow their bodies a few seconds to remember that they’ve done this for almost ten years—kiss.

Liam stiffly moves his lips against Zayn’s, and it’s impossible not to smile against his mouth when Liam breathes impatiently through his nose in response to Zayn’s lack of give.

He whines Zayn’s name into his open mouth.

“ _Shh… Liam._ ” Leaning away just enough to tilt Liam’s face an inch to the left, Zayn moulds their lips together once more.

There’s a tick of rutting frustration at the corner of Liam’s mouth; Zayn kisses him there.

“Shut up.” Another kiss to the end of his nose, because it’s appropriate, and Zayn craves the way Liam squirms with closed eyes and parted lips. “Let me kiss you.”

Impatiently, Liam’s eyes flutter open. “ _I’m waiting._ ” 

Laughing doesn’t help the cause, but it lifts the veil of unfamiliarity from their backs, and Liam’s leaning into the cradle of Zayn’s hand while exhaling soft little sighs.

He’ll never admit the spark that chars their mouth when they move languidly against each other, pressure light and hard and patient and insistent. All at once, and not at all.

Zayn’s cheeks are still flushed from Liam’s secret panting pleas when he lets their faces drift apart for the final time. The war Zayn wages with his instincts is gritty and self-revealing, fighting the overwhelming urge to suck a wet trail of marks from Liam’s shaking chin to his hidden collarbone.

The concept of time is lost when Zayn is touching Liam, that’s nothing new. But he doesn’t think the kiss lasts longer than ten seconds. Zayn holds Liam’s face in his hands until his eyes open again, dilated and unfocused.

He won’t stop looking at Zayn like he wants _more_.

Liam’s gaze crawls from Zayn’s lips back up to his eyes. “I think… I think there’s a banana chip in your hair?”

He fishes something – a banana chip – from Zayn’s hair and hands it to him, the both of them staring with wide eyes and open mouths at each other. Until they start laughing. Zayn’s nose finds its way to the crook of Liam’s neck, and he thinks of V and her stupid obsession with his and Noah’s hair. He laughs because it’s so childish and ridiculous, and she was so beautiful.

And here with Liam’s dumb, wavy hair across his cheeks, Zayn gets how the feel of a strand or two can feel like home.

Zayn laughs until he realizes that she’s gone. But Zayn is here, in her house, taking care of her kids and her husband’s weird friends. And he’s laughing again, both he and Liam holding their sides and each other until there’s no more breath in their lungs.

“I still think there’s one in my pants, too.” Separately, they collapse on top of the covers, minimal in the spread of their limbs. Zayn hooks his leg over Liam’s because there’s not enough space for them to be squeamish. “I also think that kiss was…”

“Pretty stupid, right?” Liam finishes, eyes closed and hands tucked underneath a tan pillow. He holds it tighter than Zayn’s ever held him. “Pretty freaking stupid of us.”

Zayn was going to marvel in the details, tell Liam that he’s missed kissing his angry mouth, but he saves waxing poetic for punching some shape into his pillow.

“Stupid,” Zayn echoes, counting the slots of light bathing Liam’s forehead. “Very fucking stupid.” 


End file.
